UC-NRLF 


JIAN  IFAHI 


I        I        I  •       I        I  i 


JAMES  IttMflYMcLAREN 


CT- 


o 


GIFT  OF 


JOAN  OF  ARC 


JOAN  OF  ARC 

SHEPHERDESS    :    OF    :    LORRAINE 
THE    :    CALLED    :    OF  :  GOD 

HEAD  :  OF  :  THE  :  ARMY 
SAVIOR  :  OF  :  FRANCE 
VICTIM  :  OF  :  CONSPIRACY 
MARTYR  :AND  :SAINT 

(THE   AUTHOR) 


JOAN  OF  ARC 


A  DRAMATIC   RECITAL  BY 
JAMES  HENRY  McLAREN 


PUBLISHED  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO  BY 

PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 

•       •       •     M     C     M     X     V     I     I     •       •       • 


Copyright,  1917 

By  PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
SAN  FRANCISCO 


To  My  Wife, 

Glennie  Lane  McLaren, 

whose  wise  counsel  and  good  cheer 

have  been  a  constant  service  of 

inspiration  and  encouragement 

this  book  is  dedicated 


3G8039 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

While  it  may  seem  impossible  to  credit  all  the  triumphs 
attributed  to  *Joan  of  Arc,  yet  upon  the  basis  of  authentic 
history,  one  must  conclude  that  she  was  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  beings  of  modern  times  and  the  greatest  young 
woman  the  world  has  known;  one  of  those  inspired  of  God 
and  raised  up  for  the  purpose  achieved. 

To  charge  her  cruel  treatment  to  the  Catholic  church — 
the  only  church  existent  in  those  dark,  tragic  times — would 
be  unfair.  For  men  like  Winchester  of  England  and  Cau- 
chon  of  France  were  not  fair  representatives  of  the  church  of 
even  those  distant,  brutal  days.  And  it  must  be  remembered 
that  the  same  church  afterwards  reversed  the  sentence  of  the 
"holy"  court  and  denounced  the  men  who  pronounced  it. 
Indeed,  the  Catholic  world  has  exceeded  the  Protestant  in  its 
denunciation  of  the  trial  and  martyrdom  of  the  holy  Maid 
and  the  church  has  sainted  her  to  its  honor  and  praise. 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

Page 

I 3 

II 5 

III 13 

IV 20 

V 30 

VI 35 

VII 38 

VIII 46 

PART  II 

I 49 

II 52 

HI 59 

IV 71 


IVIIJ 


LEADING  CHARACTERS 
IN  THE  RECITAL 

JOAN  OF  ARC 

REMI  BATICE  AND  HIS  WIFE,  MARIE 

GERARD,  A  FAMILY  FRIEND 

LA  HIRE,  COUNSELLOR  OF  CHARLES 

D'ALENCON,  COUSIN  OF  CHARLES 

LOUIS  DE  CONTES,  JOAN'S  FRIEND 

JACQUES  D'ARC 

CHARLES,  DAUPHIN,  CROWNED  BY  JOAN,  KING  OF  FRANCE 

DUNOIS,  CAPTAIN  IN  THE  FRENCH  ARMY 

DE  METZ,  COUNSELLOR  OF  CHARLES 

PIERRE  CAUCHON,  BISHOP  OF  BEAUVAIS 

SIR  KNIGHT  RAOUL,  OFFICER  IN  THE  FRENCH  ARMY 

LA  TREMOILLE,  COUNSELLOR  OF  CHARLES 

QUEEN  YOLANDE,  CHARLES'  AUNT 

LIEUTENANT  OF  THE  ARMY  OF  FRANCE 

THE  "  DWARF,"  DESERTER,  SAVED  BY  JOAN 

GENERAL  IN  THE  ENGLISH  ARMY 

WARICK  AND  STAFFORD,  LORDS  OF  ENGLAND 

WINCHESTER,  ENGLISH  CARDINAL 

MARGEURIE,  ONE  OF  JOAN'S  JUDGES 

FATHER  LADVENUE,  CONFESSOR  OF  JOAN 

CATHERINE,  FRIEND  OF  THE  KING 

MESSENGERS,  HERALDS,  SOLDIERS,  ET  CETERA 


[IX] 


JOAN  OF  ARC 


JOAN  OF  ARC 

PART  I 

I 

There  seemed  to  be  no  hope  for  bleeding  France — 
The  hosts  of  Britain  were  entrenched  within 
Her  gates,  her  strongholds  in  their  iron  grasp; 
Her  dauphin,  Charles,  erroneously  called  "King" 
A  hunted  fugitive,  concealed  away; 
The  ancient  crown  of  Dagobert  soon  to 
Adorn  a  foreign  brow,  and  dying  France 
To  live,  if  live  at  all,  the  vassalage 
Of  that  proud,  wicked  King  and  hated  power. 
Shall  such  indeed  become  the  fate  of  France? 
Shall  her  brave  sons  surrender  to  the  foe 
And  live  without  a  nation  or  a  name? 
O  wretched  people  in  thy  sorry  plight! 
No  army,  standing,  leadership,  of  means. 
The  powerful  enemy  at  Orleans*  gates. 
0  scattered,  trembling  sheep  midst  ravening  wolves! 
Alas!  what  hope  for  thee,  so  shamefully 
Betrayed  and  sold  by  coward  leaders  in 
Exchange  for  Britain's  honors  and  her  gold? 
From  human  standpoint,  not  a  hope  for  France; 
From  any  other,  she  would  look  for  none. 
rJ?ar  off  in  lone  Domremy  of  Lorraine, 
A  gentle  maid  was  watching  o'er  her  flock. 
In  deep  distress  of  soul  for  stricken  France, 
The  maid  betook  her  to  the  Druid  Tree. 
Her  life  was  pure  and  sweet  and  lovely,  like 
To  the  fragrant  clover  'neath  her  feet; 
Gentle  and  blameless,  as  the  lambs  she  led. 
Array' d  in  simple  garb  of  shepherdess , 


[3] 


JOAN: 


A  h^ly  purpose  in  her  deep  blue  eyes 
Bedim  d  with  tears  of  grief ",  yet  shining  with 
The  light  of  hope.    Ah!  who  e'er  dreamed 
Of  such  a  soul  concealed  in  maiden  form? 
Such  holy  yearning,  with  its  pent  up  power? 

I  wonder  why  my  God,  she  said,  has  put 
Such  spirit  in  his  helpless  shepherd  maid, 
This  woe  divine  that  wounds  my  aching  breast; 
This  desperate  passion,  that  so  frets  my  life? 

0  if  my  strength  were  equal  to  this  will! 
If  it  could  match  the  holy  passion,  which 
My  spirit  feels,  I'd  ride  on  wing'd  steed 

And  with  my  flaming  sword,  strike  to  the  death, 
Those  wicked,  ruthless  British  foes  of  France! 
Ah !  yes  I  hear — it  is  the  bleating  of 
My  sheep,  my  tender  lambs  calling  their  Jeanne. 

1  so  neglect  them  to  come  here  and  pray 
And  wake  my  father's  wrath  in  their  neglect. 
Forgive  thy  child,  O!  Father  God,  who  thus 
Forsakes  her  flock  and  comes  to  linger  here, 
Commune  with  spirits  and  to  council  thee, 
To  vainly  wonder  why  her  God  he  does 
Not  do  her  will.     Forgive,  O  Lord,  if  wrong. 

Ah  little  lamb!    Torn  with  thorns  and  bleeding — 
I  will  bind  up  thy  wounds.    O,  dost  thou  know 
My  love  for  thee,  dear  lamb,  looking  with  thy 
Pain-moistened  eyes  so  sweetly  into  mine? 
Dear  lamb,  so  grateful  for  the  kindness  done — 
A  kiss,  my  sweet-breathed  child;  take  of  my  milk. 
Now  comes  thy  fleecy  dame;  she  calls  for  thee. 
Methinks  there's  tears  of  love  in  her  kind  voice. 
Perhaps  thou,  little  lamb,  art  bleeding  France, 
And  the  Great  Shepherd,  who  sees  all  her  wounds 
And  feels  her  pain,  will  come,  bind  up  those  wounds, 
And  soothe  her  pain  and  she  will  then  become 
The  sweeter  and  the  better  for  them  all. 


[4] 


II 

REMI:  The  day  is  dark,  Marie,  for  bleeding  France. 

I  fear  her  sun  goes  down  in  cloud  and  gloom. 
The  soil  our  fathers  in  their  freedom  till'd 
Is  being  trampled  by  a  foreign  foe — 
We're  now  a  vassalage  of  Britain  if 
We're  not  her  slaves,  galling  beneath  her  yoke. 
The  ancient  crown  of  Dagobert  adorns 
A  foreign  brow,  while  he,  its  lawful  heir, 
Must  roam  in  secret  through  his  own  domain 
Or  crouch  like  to  a  hunted  weasel  in 
His  royal  den. 

MARIE:  I  know,  dear  Remi,  that  the  day  is  dark. 

But  then,  the  darkest  hour  oft  hails  the  dawn. 
We  must  be  brave;  we  must  have  faith  in  God, 
As  our  good  fathers  did. 

REMI:  God's  but  a  name,  what  more,  in  wicked  France? — 

A  name  for  use  in  curses  and  in  creeds. 
Except  for  priests,  who  even  speaks  of  faith  ? 

MARIE:  God  lives  and  reigns,  Remi,  aye,  e'en  in  France, 

And  multitudes  do  put  their  trust  in  him. 

REMI:  If  God  is  living  yet  in  France,  he  sleeps. 

Behold  eternal  wars!    When  were  they  naught? 
Murder  of  mothers  and  their  little  ones; 
Innocence  outraged  by  beasts  in  garb  of 
Men;  villages  around  us  are  in  flames. 
And  soon  our  time  must  come.     If  I  were  God, 
Would  I  permit  such  things?    Not  I!    Not  I! 
O,  would  I  were  your  fanci'd  God  one  day! 


MARIE; 


REMI: 


MARIE: 

REMI: 

MARIE: 
REMI: 


MARIE: 


I'd  hurl  those  English  devils  down  to  hell 

And  rescue  France!    Poor  France!  she  needs  a  God, 

But  such  a  God  as  true  brave  man  would  be. 

If  Remi,  he  were  God,  he'd  kill  the  English; 
If  Burgundy  were  God,  he'd  slay  the  French, 
And  if  some  Spaniard,  he  were  God,  he'd  kill 
Them  all.     I'm  glad  my  God,  he's  none  of  these. 
Trust,  man !  and  be  no  shallow  infidel. 

Shallow  indeed! 

Who  are  shallow,  as  the  superstitious? 
Infidel?    That's  to  be  listed  in  the 
Best  of  company,  in  which  you  well-nigh 
Did  belong  yourself  some  months  ago. 

Ah!  well  I  know.    But  holy  Name! 

That  angel  Maid,  she  came  to  me. 

You  mean  Jeanne  d'Arc? 
Jeanne  d'Arc  indeed;  the  Maid  who  talks  with  God. 

Rather  with  witches  at  the  Druid  Tree. 

I  've  seen  her  sitting  there  with  folded  hands 

In  dreamy  meditation  hour  by  hour 

In  that  enchant'd  spot,  where  witches  and 

The  spirits  of  the  damned  have  their  abode. 

The  man  who  chops  that  nuisance  down,  he'll  bless 

Lorraine. 

The  Ladies'  Tree !    Name  of  God ! 
Who'd  be  that  wicked  man?    What  sweeter  hours 
Did  childhood  ever  know,  than  those  in  which 
We  all  join'd  hands  and  danced  and  sang  around 
That  Tree,  the  song  we  never  can  forget, 
L'Arbre  F6e  de  Bourlemont.    The  song,  the 


[6] 


Memory,  which  cheers  the  passing  soul  in 
Some  strange  land  unto  the  present  day. 

REMI:  You're  overmuch  religious,  poor  Marie. 

Good  Pierre  Fonte,  whose  prayers  once  drove  the 
Witches  from  the  Tree,  were  not  more  so. 

MARIE  :  Ah !  do  you  say  ? 

A  rare  fault  in  these  wicked  times,  Remi. 

REMI:  If  Jeanne  were  mine 

She'd  give  more  heed  unto  her  flocks  and  less 
Unto  that  wretched  Tree.    I  pity  Jacques, 
Poor  fool! 

MARIE:  That's  your  mistake,  Remi  Batice! 

Jacques  never  had  so  dear  and  good  a  child, 
At  wheel  and  distaff  name  one  more  like  Jeanne. 
What  time  she  lingers  at  the  Tree  by  day, 
She  toils  the  longer  to  restore  at  night. 
What  does  not  prosper  in  that  maiden's  hands? 
Who  is  more  pure  and  good  and  sweet  than  Jeanne  ? 
Too  religious?    Ah!  blessed  fault  indeed 
For  skeptic,  wicked  France. 

REMI:  You're  under  those  enchantments  too,  Marie. 

MARIE:  Small  matter  what  you  think  or  say,  Remi, 

Since  God  has  set  his  seal  upon  the  Maid. 
Some  day  she  will,  aye — and  ere  long — 

REMI:  What  will  she  do? 

MARIE:  She'll  rescue  France! 

REMI:  Jeanne  d'Arc!    How? 


MARIE:  Have  you  forgotten  that  blest  prophecy? 

"Out  of  Lorraine,  beside  the  Ladies*  Tree, 
Shall  come  a  maid,  Savior  of  France"? 

REMI:  Well  what  of  that,  Marie? 

MARIE:  Jeanne  d'Arc,  she  is  that  Maid  of  God! 

REMI:  Mother  of  Christ,  Marie! 

Have  you,  too,  lost  your  mind?    Little  Jeanne  d'Arc 
The  shepherdess!    She  will  deliver  France! 
Ha,  ha,  ha!    Jeanne  d'Arc  the  timid  maid — 
The  one  who  faints  away  at  sight  of  blood — 
She,  face  Great  Britain's  hosts?    My  God,  Marie! 


'Twas  well  it  came. 


A  knock  upon  the  door. 


MARIE: 


GERARD: 


MARIE: 

REMI: 
[8] 


0  Hauviette,  my  dear,  come  in,  come  in! 

And  thou,  Gerard!    Home  from  the  wars,  sweet  boyi 
Unto  God's  holy  Mother  be  the  praise! 
Wounded  and  lame,  but  better  than  we  heard. 
They  told  us  that  our  dear  Gerard  must  die, 
And  now  our  eyes  behold  him  in  our  home. 
So  good  of  Hauviette  to  bring  Gerard! 

Yes,  Aunt  Marie,  I  have  been  wounded  sore. 
The  brutal  British  bullets  pierc'd  my  breast, 
Their  blades  have  hacked  my  body  and  let  out 
My  blood.    But  recently  I  have  been  heal'd. 

Heal'd,  Gerard?    Praise  God  for  that! 

1  wonder  how,  brave  boy? 

I  wonder  how  myself,  Gerard, 


The  sturdy  husband  queried  with  surprise. 
GERARD:  You  would  not  believe  me,  so  I  will  not  tell. 

REMI:  I  am  no  Sphinx.     What  Remi  sees  he  believes. 

GERARD:  They  took  me  to  the  holy  wells  beside 

The  Druid  Tree.  I  drank  those  waters  day 
By  day.  They're  healing  me. 

REMI  :  Cool  native  air,  home  food,  and  sparkling  springs 

Are  healing  you.     Not  superstition,  boy. 

GERARD:  I  told  you,  Remi,  that  you'd  not  believe. 

REMI  :  And  do  you  believe  a  thing  like  that,  Gerard  ? 

GERARD:  One  must  believe,  when  nothing  else  will  do. 

MARIE:  Praise  God,  Gerard!  exclaimed  Marie;  but  how 

In  your  condition,  did  you  reach  the  wells? 

GERARD:  Our  angel  leader,  aunt — why  need  you  ask? 

She  came  with  Pierre  and  Margot,  Etienne, 
Mengette  and  other  young  folk  of  the  place. 
They  carried  me  in  turn,  clear  to  the  wells. 

MARIE:  Just  like  sweet  Jeanne!  she  leads  in  all  that's  good. 

REMI  :  Much  better  than  she  leads  her  sheep,  Marie. 

What  news  comes  from  the  front,  Gerard? 
That  would  I  hear.     Is  there  no  hope  for  France  ? 

GERARD:  Bad  news,  Remi!  so  bad  I  grieve  to  tell. 

REMI:  Bad?    Well,  we're  used  to  that,  my  boy.     Say  on. 


[9] 


GERARD: 

REMI: 

GERARD: 

REMI: 

GERARD: 

REMI: 
MARIE: 
GERARD: 
MARIE: 

REMI: 

MARIE: 


REMI: 

MARIE: 
[10] 


A  treaty  has  been  signed  at  Troyes  between 
The  English,  French  and  Burgundians, 
And  by  it,  France  betrayed  unto  the  foe. 

Betrayed?    How  so,  Gerard? 

It  marries  Henry  of  England,  Butcher 
Of  Agincourt,  to  Catherine  of  France. 

Name  of  God!    Another  scheme  of  Burgundy's 
And_that  she-devil  queen,  our  Isabel! 

Who  brought  this  news,  Gerard  ? 

Etienne  Roze,  who  came  with  lightning 
Speed,  waving  a  black  flag. 

A  black  flag!     Sign  of  bad  news  indeed. 

Where  is  Etienne? 

I  think  he's  over  at  Jeanne  d'Arc's. 

At  Jeanne's  of  course,  they  all  go  there  to  speak 
Their  sorrow  or  their  joy. 

To  see  the  girls,  Marie,  that's  why  they  go. 

Well  may  they  go  to  see  such  girls,  Remi. 
Margot,  she  is  engaged  to  Etienne; 
Pierre,  he  is  engaged  to  sweet  Mengette, 
But  Jeanne  looks  not  with  favor  upon  men. 
She  lives  so  constant  in  the  spirit  world. 

She  cheats  the  spirit  world  and  sheepfold  too 
Out  of  much  time,  to  spend  with  Louis  by 
The  Druid  Tree. 

Louis  de  Contes — he  is  her  favorite  boy — 


Although  her  senior  by  ten  years,  I  believe. 
And  yet,  Jeanne  d'Arc  will  never  choose  a  man ! 

REMI:  Why  not,  Marie? 

MARIE:  Already  she  has  chosen  God. 

REMI:  Bah!  woman,  silly  nonsense  that. 

To  no  French  girl,  will  God  do  for  a  man. 
What  say  you  to  that,  Gerard? 

GERARD:  Your  good  wife,  she  has  spoken  truly,  sir. 

Jeanne's  thoughts  and  life  are  in  the  spirit  realm. 

MARIE:  The  Lord  be  praised,  Gerard!    He  sent  you  here. 

What  think  you  of  Jeanne  d'Arc? 

GERARD:  She  is  the  Maid  of  God;  the  one  foretold. 

MARIE:  Gerard! 

GERARD:  I  believe  it,  Aunt  Marie! 

Aye,  with  all  my  soul. 

REMI:  Then  Jeanne  d'Arc,  she  will  rescue  France? 

GERARD:  She  will,  Remi,  she  will! 
REMI:  How? 

GERARD:  God  has  told  her,  not  me. 

REMI  :  Gerard,  I  honor  one  so  brave. 

Yet  some  strange  phantom  has  obscured  your  mind; 
Your  wounds,  poor  boy,  I  believe  have  weakn'd  you. 
I'll  see  Jacques  d'Arc  this  night.    His  child,  she  must 
Be  saved. 

[ii] 


GERARD:  Useless,  Remi.    I  have  talked  with  Jacques. 

REMI:  Of  this  affair  ? 

GERARD:  Aye,  this  same  thing. 

REMI:  When  did  you  talk  with  him? 

GERARD:  This  very  day  and  yester-night. 

REMI:  Does  Jacques  d'Arc  credit  the  fairy  tales? 

GERARD:  I  know  not  as  to  fairy  tales,  nor  yet 

How  far  as  to  the  truth.     I  only  know 
He  believes  in  part  and  waits  God's  will. 

REMI:  Then  he  is  not  the  wise  old  Jacques  he  was — 

It's  but  a  fortnight  since  I  talked  with  him. 
In  grief  he  spoke  of  Jeanne's  mysterious  flights; 
How  late  at  night  and  early  dawn  the  child 
Creeps  forth  as  one  by  some  strange  thing  possess'd, 
To  hold  communion  with  the  mountain  air 
Or  sit  in  dreamy  musings  'neath  that  Tree 
Where  evil  spirits  have  their  dark  abode, 
And  witches  with  the  fairies  congregate. 
My  God!  if  Jeanne,  she  too  becomes  a  witch! 
O!    Marie!    Gerard!    Hauviette!    What  means 
This  awful  thing?    I'll  go  to  Jacques !    His  child, 
She  shall  be  saved! 

MARIE:  Ah!    Remi,  she  who  like  her  Lord, 

Came  to  save  others,  cannot  save  herself. 


LA  HIRE: 


III 


Poor  France! 

Shis  groaning  'neath  Great  Britain  s  iron  heels; 
She  trembles  yneath  the  mightiest  hosts  like  some 
Frail  floor,  beaten  with  many  flails;  and  yet 
Their  dauphin,  whom  some  call  "  King"  finds  pleasure  in 
His  stricken  people's  pain. 

Go  quickly,  O,  good  D'Alencon  to  Charles, 
He  seldom  fails  to  lend  an  ear  to  thee. 
Implore  him  as  becomes  a  king  and  man, 
That  he  come  bravely  forth  and  fight  for  France 
Or  France  is  doomed. 


D ' A LE  NCO N  :  Tis  useless,  La  Hire, 

Charles  will  not  leave  the  castle  of  Chinon. 


LA  HIRE:          Not  leave  his  castle  in  a  time  like  this? 

Curs'd  be  the  king  who  thus  seeks  pleasure  in 
His  country's  peril,  gloats  o'er  wine  cups, 
Riddles  and  stale  jokes,  with  coarsest  men  and 
Tinted  females  of  his  vulgar  taste. 

D'ALENCON:     Speak  not  so  harshly  of  your  King,  La  Hire — 
My  Cousin  Charles  has  cause  for  losing  heart. 
With  lawful  right  to  reign,  in  doubt  through  his 
Disloyal  mother's  black  and  vile  career, 
With  treasury  empty  as  a  fairy's  dream, 
And  mortgaged  to  the  box  that  holds  his  snuff, 
How  can  he  rally  the  discouraged  hosts 
And  wrest  the  crown  of  France  from  Britain's  grasp  ? 


[13] 


LA  HIRE:  Who'd  be  a  king,  must  be  a  man! 

Let  Charles  come  forth,  or,  by  the  bones  of  God! 
'Twill  mean  his  death. 


Louis:  O!  Jeanne! 

I  thought  the  matter  over  yester-night — 
We've  been  deluded  and  mistaken,  dear. 
The  cause  of  France  is  desperate,  her  hope  vain — 
It  has  been  so  since  Agincourt. 

JOAN:  The  hope  of  France — it's  vain?    Why  tell  me  that? 

Louis:  Because  she's  mostly  now  in  Britain's  grasp; 

Our  King  is  bankrupt  and  conceal'd  away; 
He  has  no  soldiers  and  he  cannot  fight. 
And  though  he  may  abide  with  favorite  fools 
In  that,  his  meager  realm  a  little  time, 
He  will  escape  when  closely  pursued,  and 
France  shall  fall! 

JOAN:  But  France  will  rise  again. 

Louis:  France  rise!  with  Britain's  army  on  her  back? 

JOAN:  She'll  cast  it  off!    She'll  trample  it  in  the  dust! 

Louis:  Cast  it  off!    Trample  it  in  the  dust! 

And  she  without  an  army,  means  or  power. 
The  mighty  foe  e'en  now  at  Orleans'  walls. 

JOAN:  God's  Maid,  she  comes! 

Comes  clothed  with  power  divine; 
Comes  with  flaming  sword  bath'd  in  heaven; 
Comes  to  destroy  the  ruthless  foes  of  France. 


Ere  yonder  moon  rounds  out  its  beauteous  orb 
Or  yet  the  golden  corn  hangs  ripe  and  low, 
No  English  feet  shall  tread  this  sacred  soil, 
Nor  English  warhorse  quench  his  thirst  in  the 
Clear  waters  of  our  dear  Loire. 

Louis:  Impossible,  brave  Jeanne! 

Unless  the  very  God,  he  takes  a  hand. 

JOAN:  He'll  take  a  hand! 

He'll  come  in  his  own  Maiden  cloth'd  in  power; 

The  fire  of  his  hot  anger  will  descend — 

Its  flaming  tongue  shall  lick  with  burning  zeal 

And  rend  with  ruthless  ire  the  foes  of  France. 

He'll  use  this  weak  thing  to  confound  the  strong. 

Before  her  shining  sword  by  angels  given, 

Her  snow-white  banner  with  the  fleur-de-lis, 

Proud  Burgundy,  betrayer  of  our  land, 

Shall  fall  I    And  that  high-handed,  God-defying 

Scourge — that  Talbot,  traitor,  fiend  Salsbury, 

Lional,  and  their  low  accomplices, 

Shall  flee  in  fright,  as  timid  hares  before 

The  hunter's  horn.    The  God  of  battles — he 

Will  go  forth  and  by  a  gentle  Maid 

He'll  rescue  France  and  crown  her  dauphin,  King. 

Then  Jeanne,  she  went  apart  and  kneeling  said: 

Send  thou,  O  Lord,  deliverance  to  France. 
Poor  France!  sore,  crush'd  beneath  a  foreign  yoke. 
O  Lord,  thou  hast  been  with  us  in  the  past, 
And,  but  for  thee  we  must  have  perished. 
Come  now  to  us,  as  thou  didst  come  unto 
Thy  people  in  the  days  of  old,  bringing 
Deliverance,  when  they  were  few  and  weak. 
Bless  thou  our  gentle  dauphin;  crown  him  King. 
Make  France  a  nation  great  to  serve  her  God 


And  bless  mankind  forever.     Amen. 
Then  fell  a  shadow  like  a  fleecy  cloud — 
From  it  a  form  in  radiant  beauty  came. 
The  Maid's  calm  face ,  and  rude  apparel  too, 
Were  glorious  in  that  transforming  light. 
Before  that  vision  pure,  majestic  in 
The  solemn  gloom,  the  Maid  sank  down  to  earth 
In  fear  and  woe. 

ARCH.  MICH.:   I  am  Archangel  Michael,  spake  the  voice, 

O,  Maid  of  God,  fear  not.     Go  bravely  forth. 
Deliver  France  and  crown  thy  King  at  Rheims! 

Slowly  she  rose,  yet  kneeling,  softly  spake: 

JOAN:  O,  holy  angel,  I  am  but  a  child 

And  knowest  not  the  dreadful  art  of  war. 
How  can  I  leave  my  parents  and  my  sheep? 

ARCH.  MICH.:   I  will  be  with  thee;  thou  hast  not  to  fear, 
The  angel,  he  replied. 


JOAN: 


Farewell,  thou  dear  Domremy  of  Lorraine — 
Farewell  ye  mountains,  vales  and  crystal  streams; 
Ye  trees  and  shrubs  and  beauteous  blooming  flowers, 
Which  I  have  planted,  nurtured  and  so  loved. 
Sweet  scenes  in  which  my  childhood  days  were  spent- 
My  sheep,  my  lambs,  I  leave  to  other  care — 
My  quiet  fields  for  those  of  war  and  blood — 
My  shepherd's  horn  for  bugle's  call  to  fight — 
Shears  for  sword,  sheepfold  for  camp,  my  humble 
Flock,  to  lead  the  army  of  poor  France  'gainst 
Britain's  hosts.    Dear  God,  my  witness,  this  is 
Not  thy  Maid's  own  choice.    That  no  ambition 
For  the  battlefield  or  strife  ere  fired  her  breast 


[16] 


But  now  she  yields  her  will  to  thine;  she  hears 
Thy  voice  alone.     Speak  to  my  dauphin's 
Soul,  O  Lord,  that  he  may  see  the  light,  and 
Know  the  Maid  has  come  from  God. 


Louis:  Good  father  Jacques,  do  not  oppose  thy  child, 

Do  not  lay  any  hindrance  in  her  way; 
She  is  the  Maid  of  God! 

JACQUES:          How  do  you  know  that,  Louis  de  Contes? 
My  child  may  be  the  victim  of  a  witch; 
Perchance  some  evil  spirit  of  the  air. 
Send  her  to  me. 


JOAN: 

JACQUES: 

JOAN: 

JACQUES: 

JOAN: 

JACQUES  : 


Jeanne,  I  demand  to  know 
What  evil  thing  has  so  possessed  thy  mind; 
Why,  with  such  actions,  wilt  thou  grieve  us  so? 

Tis  not  my  choice,  good  father. 
God  calls!    His  child,  she  must  obey. 

Obey  in  what  and  how,  my  Jeanne? 
To  fight  for  France;  to  crown  my  dauphin  King. 
You  fight  for  France! 


A  maid  and  child! 


The  voices,  father, 


They  have  told  me  to. 

How  did  they  tell  you,  Jeanne,  to  fight  for  France  ? 


JOAN: 

JACQUES; 

JOAN: 
JACQUES: 


JOAN: 

JACQUES; 

JOAN: 
JACQUES: 

1 1*1 


To  raise  an  army  of  brave  men — 
To  fight  and  conquer  Britain  and  to  crown 
My  dauphin  King  at  Rheims. 

Holy  Mother  of  God's  Son! 
My  child,  she's  lost  her  mind. 
This  once  for  all  I  warn  you,  Jeanne,  you  stay 
From  that  damned  Druid  Tree. 

Nay,  father.    For  'tis 
My  disobedience  to  the  voices,  which 
Has  lost  so  many  battles  to  poor  France. 

Those  voices,  they  deceive  you,  Jeanne. 
The  voice  that  bids  a  peasant  child,  a  young 
And  tender  maid,  who,  than  a  shepherd's  horn 
Has  heard  no  harsher  sound,  who  never  grasp'd 
A  sword's  hilt  or  e  'en  from  distant  height 
Looked  on  the  hell  of  war,  to  clothe  herself 
In  male  attire  and  join  an  army  of 
Coarse,  vulgar  men,  that  voice  is  not  from  God! 

Is  this  so  shameful,  that  he  bids  me  do? 
Is  this  a  crime  so  dark — that  I  obey 
His  voice?    Is  this — 

Tis  not  God's  voice! 

The  voice  that  seeks  to  lead  you  on,  is  naught 
Itself,  but  fraud  and  sorcery. 

Each  one  must  be  his  judge  of  what's  divine — 
I'll  be  my  judge. 

You'll  now  give  ear  to  voices  that  deceive. 
Hereafter  sit  and  spin  in  mournful  grief 
Beside  the  fire;  become  a  mock,  a  sport 
For  wicked  scoffers  to  your  poor  life's  end. 
Ere  you  join  that  army,  I'll  drown  my  child! 


JOAN:  This  once,  good  father,  suffer  me  to  tell 

Thee  how  it  came  to  pass  and  then  I  must 
Away.  The  voices,  they  are  calling  me — 
Aye,  calling  clearly  for  their  Jeanne. 


'Twas  evening  and  our  little  town  was  still — 

Nature  and  man  and  beast  had  found  repose. 

Its  narrow  streets  grew  broad  and  luminous — 

Pale  poplars,  like  trees  of  Paradise. 

The  winding  stream — its  banks  all  billowy 

With  beauteous  flowers — a  river  of  pure  gold, 

Its  molten  beauty  in  the  serpent  light 

Gleaming  and  flowing  'mid  trees  and  vines  unknown. 

Wee,  thatched  homes  had  risen  to  mansions  bright — 

Domremy  was  a  city  beautiful! 

From  battlements  I  heard  clear  bugles  blow 

And  saw  the  mighty  hosts  array 'd  for  war, 

The  neighing  steeds,  the  chariots  of  God, 

Bright  helmets  flashing  in  the  moon's  clear  light. 

I  saw  Archangel  Michael  cloth'd  in  power — 

I  heard  his  voice  which  spake  to  me  and  said: 

"Jeanne  d'Arc,  go  forth!    For  I,  who  called  the  Christ 

From  Nazareth,  to  save  the  world  from  sin, 

Now  calleth  thee  to  save  thy  France  from  death." 

My  earnest  pleadings  were  of  no  avail. 

There  stood  my  gallant  men  awaiting  me, 

Their  limbs  of  oak,  arms,  like  bands  of  steel. 

There  pranced  my  snow-white  horse,  my  shining  sword 

Flash'd  like  a  cross  of  jewels  in  the  light — 

Saw  my  brave  hosts  advance  with  martial  tread, 

I  leading  them,  with  banner  pure  and  white 

Like  angel  wings,  and  lovely  fleur-de-lis 

Sacred,  triumphant,  as  it  bore  inscribed 

The  holy  names,  Jehsus  Maria! 

[19! 


IV 

CHARLES:          How  fares  the  faithful,  O  good  D'Alencon? 
What  tidings  from  the  front? 

D'ALENCON:  If  God,  he  has  not  pity  on  our  land — 

If  he  saves  not  the  King,  both  must  be  lost. 
Strong,  savage  hosts  appear  on  every  hand. 
Artillery  and  implements  of  war 
From  many  lands,  with  many  tongues  they  come, 
Burgundy,  Liege,  Namur  and  Luxemburg. 
From  thrifty  Holland  and  from  prosperous  Ghent, 
Zealand,  and  regions  of  the  icy  North 
They  flock  as  eagles  round  their  hapless  prey. 
While  traitors  some,  to  country  and  to  King, 
Shall  France  supinely  yield  with  ne'er  a  fight, 
Her  life,  her  honor  and  her  glorious  name? 
Arise,  O  cousin  Charles!  proclaim  thy  will! 
Prove  to  thy  people  that  thou  art  their  King. 

CHARLES:  "My  people" — sayest  thou,  good  D'Alencon? 

Assure  me  that  sweet  boon.     Remove  the  taint 
Of  doubt,  from  royal  sire  to  son;  wipe  out 
This  wretched  stain  of  foul  disgrace  and  I 
Will  fight  for  France.    Aye,  fight  for  France, 
Though  now  it  seemeth  useless  in  a  cause 
That's  lost. 

D'ALENCON:  Why  lost,  Your  Majesty? 

CHARLES:          Why  lost?    In  vain  I  call  for  troops  and  men. 
The  people  flee  from  me  as  stricken  sheep 
From  a  pursuing  wolf. 


Then  angry  Dunois  spake  and  said: 


DUNOIS: 


CHARLES: 


DUNOIS: 


CHARLES: 


D'ALENCON; 


CHARLES: 


D'ALENCON: 


God  pity  France,  with  such  a  King  as  thou! 
A  recreant  monarch  who  forsakes  himself; 
A  coward  when  his  country  is  in  peril. 

Restrain  thy  slanderous  tongue,  Dunois, 
Or  by  the  ancient  crown  of  Dagobert 
I'll  teach  you  that  I  am  the  King. 

Thou  art  the  dauphin,  who  might  be  the  King, 
And  need  I  warn  thee  of  thy  kingdom's  plight? 
Need  I  rehearse  the  tales  of  death  and  woe  ? 
The  red,  insweeping  tide  of  Britain's  wrath — 
Nor  dost  thou  bravely  rise  with  sword  in  hand 
To  rid  thy  realm  of  those  fierce  robber-foes, 
But  linger  in  soft  dalliance,  begirt 
With  knaves,  with  jugglers,  with  tinted  dames 
And  troubadors,  while  siege  is  raging  e  'en 
At  Orleans'  gates. 

What  boldness  this! 

'Tis  treason  on  thy  tongue!     I'll  answer  thee 
With  steel! 

Nay,  hear  his  warning,  O  my  cousin  Charles. 
Faithful  the  wounds  inflicted  by  a  friend. 
Take  heed  I  pray  and  act  accordingly. 

I'm  helpless,  D'Alencon, 
Aye,  helpless  as  a  suckling  babe.    They  will 
Not  rally,  while  such  doubt  endures.     God  lift 
The  veil!    Reveal  the  naked  truth!    Am  I 
The  King,  O  Lord,  am  I  the  King? 


Take  heart,  Your  Majesty, 
A  messenger  with  happy  tidings  comes.    . 


[21] 


CHARLES: 


From  Orleans  and  the  battle's  front? 


D'ALENCON; 
CHARLES: 

D'ALENCON: 
CHARLES: 


DE  METZ: 
CHARLES: 
DE  METZ: 

CHARLES: 

DE  METZ: 
CHARLES: 
DE  METZ: 

[22] 


Nay,  from  Domremy  in  Lorraine. 

Domremy  in  Lorraine ! 

Ye  gods !  what  message  from  a  place  like  that 
Can  be  of  interest  to  the  King? 

Your  Majesty,  it's  from  the  Maid  of  God 
Conveyed  to  thee  by  good  De  Metz  himself. 

Who  in  the  devil  is  this  Maid  of  God  ? 

A  hoax,  a  fiction,  a  humbug  or  myth? 

I  have  a  missive  now  from  such  an  one — 

A  maid  that's  called  of  God.     She  claims  to  save 

Her  country  and  her  King.     She'll  point  me  out, 

So  she  avers,  in  whatsoe  'er  disguise 

Or  place  I  care  to  choose  for  such  a  test. 

I  heed  not  such  vagaries  of  the  crazed. 

Your  Majesty  will  hear  at  least 
What  these,  his  trusted  counsellors  will  say. 

What  then  of  this  strange  Maid,  De  Metz? 
Speak  briefly,  as  the  thing  demands. 

Thou'st  heard, O  King,  the  prophecy  of  old: 

"Out  of  Lorraine  beside  the  Ladies'  Tree 

Shall  come  the  Maid  of  God,  Saviour  of  France!" 


What's  it  to  me? 


I  've  heard  the  tale,  De  Metz — 


This  one,  she  is  the  Maid  of  God! 

How  know  you  that? 
Archangel  Michael  hath  appeared  to  her; 


Appeared  and  spoken  at  the  Druid  Tree. 

CHARLES:          The  Druid  Tree!     I've  heard  of  it— that  place 
Where  fairies  dance  and  witches  congregate? 

DE  METZ:         Hear  first  the  things  she  has  achiev'd,  O  King, 
Then  judge  her  as  thou  wilt. 
Her  wisdom  and  her  daring  deeds  have  won 
Her  case  before  the  court 
And  Governor  of  Vaucouleurs. 

CHARLES:         You  mean  not  Sir  Robert  de  Baudricourt? 

DE  METZ:  Aye,  Your  Majesty,  and  'tis  that  grim  old 

Warrior  who  commends  the  Maid  to  thee. 

CHARLES:  He  does? 

DE  METZ:  Yes,  and  without  reserve. 

CHARLES  :  Where  is  this  Maid  of  God — so  called  ? 

DE  METZ:  From  Chinon,  but  six  leagues. 

CHARLES:  Six  leagues  from  Chinon? 

How  reached  she  there  in  face  of  powerful  foes? 

DE  METZ:         She's  come  through  dangers  great  and  perilous; 
She  has  won  signal  victories  all  the  way. 
In  various  towns  the  people  have  equip  'd 
The  Maid  with  horses,  men  and  arms. 

CHARLES:  What  say  you  of  her,  D'Alencon? 

D'ALENCON:     She  is  the  Maid  of  God! 

CHARLES:  And  thou,  De  Metz? 

[23] 


DE  METZ:  Tis  even  so,  Your  Majesty. 

CHARLES:  You  really  believe  this  thing? 

DE  METZ:         With  all  my  soul. 

CHARLES:  If  'tis  not  so, 

Some  strange  enchantment  sure  hath  cast  its  spell 
O'er  all  the  royal  court. 

D'ALENCON:     A  messenger  brings  news  of  great  import. 
CHARLES:          Communicate  the  message  to  the  King. 

D'ALENCON:  Your  Majesty,  La  Hire  returns 

With  tidings  from  the  field. 

CHARLES:          In  God's  name,  bid  him  now  approach. 


CHARLES: 

LA  HIRE: 
CHARLES: 
LA  HIRE: 
CHARLES; 

[24] 


Forth  came  that  great  fierce  General, 
Clad  in  the  heavy  armor  of  his  time. 
Could  such  a  mighty  warrior  as  he 
Feel  slightest  interest  in  a  peasant  maid? 

What  tidings,  friend? 
Is  hope  in  vain? 

Never,  my  King,  was  there  such  cause  for  hope. 

You  jest,  La  Hire. 
Heaven  forbid! 

Speak  then,  explain. 
What  can  it  mean?    Break,  break  the  strain. 


LA  HIRE:  Thou,  O  King,  hast  won  a  victory! 

CHARLES:          A  victory!    Me?    What  music  is  thy  speech.    O  would 
Thy  words  were  true ! 

LA  HIRE:  Prepare  thyself,  O  King,  for  greater  news. 

Lo!  the  Archbishop  who  has  come  with 
Dunois,  straight  from  Rheims,  he  will  explain. 

BISHOP:  It's  verified,  Your  Majesty,  and  more. 

Our  cause  is  to  rejoice  and  not  to  weep 
Since  heaven  itself  has  come  to  our  relief. 

CHARLES:          Explain,  good  Bishop,  lest  the  King  explode. 

BISHOP:  Our  Sir  Knight  Raoul 

With  the  King's  consent  will  speak  and  tell. 


RAOUL:  Twas  in  the  valley  of  the  Yonne, 

O  King,  we  met  the  enemy  so  fierce 
And  strong,  all  in  stout  armor  clad,  and  armed 
With  swords  and  spears,  swarming  like  beetles  from 
Summer's  air,  fierce  like  to  ravening  wolves. 
Resistance — it  were  madness — flight  in  vain. 
Our  stoutest  hearts  gave  way,  e  'en  our  mighty 
General  Baudricourt,  Knight  of  Vaucouleurs 
Would  have  surrendered  then  and  there,  but  for 
A  miracle.    Out  from  the  forest's  depths, 
On  dashing  steed  of  war,  a  Maid  came  forth — 
A  Maid  clad  in  strange  armor  for  the  fray. 
Most  beautiful  she  was  in  face  and  form; 
A  light  divine  shone  on  her  noble  brow. 
Most  godlike  she,  and  radiant  in  grace, 
Her  youthful  face,  her  flashing  eyes  shone  with 
A  light  as  from  another  sun.    Her  power 


Was  like  to  magic — irresistible. 

In  clear  commanding  voice  she  spake  and  said: 

"  Soldiers  and  Frenchmen  brave,  surrender  not 

Unto  the  haughty  foe.    Your  God,  he  fights 

For  you  and  France.    His  servant  leads — the  Maid 

Whom  he  has  called.    Aye,  even  though  the  hosts 

Of  Britain  were  as  countless  as  the  leaves, 

They'll  flee  as  Pharaoh's  minions  fled  before 

His  servant  and  his  wonder-working  rod." 

Then  suddenly,  as  if  by  power  unseen, 

Our  soldiers  turned  upon  the  countless  foe, 

Who  stood  transfixed,  gazing,  with  awe  o'erpower'd, 

As  if  by  some  strange  miracle,  and  fled. 

Those  who  resisted,  fell  in  hundreds,  slain. 

While  France  lost  not  a  man. 

CHARLES:  'Tis  wonderful!    A  miracle,  if  true. 

If  true,  I  say,  the  victory  was  God's. 

RAOUL:  His  servant's  too,  Your  Majesty. 

The  army,  which  as  great  La  Hire  has  said: 
"Would  shudder  at  the  coming  of  the  foe, 
Will  now  march  fearless  to  the  gates  of  hell." 

CHARLES:  When  will  this  Maid  approach  Chinon? 

RAOUL:  She  comes  tonight — 

Behold  the  multitudes  awaiting  her. 

CHARLES:          Is  she  the  cause  for  all  this  loud  acclaim? 

RAOUL:  Your  Majesty, 

The  people  all  but  worship  her. 

CHARLES:          Good  friends,  show  cause  why  this  great  one  be  not 
Received  by  your  King. 

U61 


LATREMOILLE:  Beware,  O  Charles! 

Women  are  cunning,  and  as  dangerous  too, 

Warns  wily  Seigneur  de  la  Tremoille. 

LATREMOILLE:  These  charlatans  are  shrewd. 

Some  secret,  dark  conspirator — Satan 
Perchance — not  God,  may  be  this  female's  guide. 

CHARLES:  Satan,  do  you  say? 

LA  TREMOILLE:  Yes,  Satan.    Why  not?    Satan,  inspirer 
Of  witches  and  deceiver  from  of  old. 
A  humorous  vagary  inspired  of  him. 
That  this  poor,  lowly  shepherd  lass  should  leave 
Her  sheep  to  ride  on  battle  steed  and  sweep 
Away  this  world-power  like  a  tempest,  with 
Her  helpless  troops!    Her  maiden  vanity 
Will  melt  like  snow!    She  lead  an  army!    She 
To  teach  our  seasoned  captains  in  the  art 
Of  war!    The  shadow  of  its  ruthless  curse 
Would  shrivel  up  her  tender  life,  as  'twere 
A  shrimp  upon  a  gridiron ! 

DE  METZ:        True,  Seigneur,  were  she  that  sort  of  maid, 
But  is  she  not  the  called  of  God — the  one 
Foretold?    If  not,  explain  the  triumphs  she's 
Achieved.    Nor  is  this  Maid  the  first  among 
The  lowly  so  raised  up.    The  weak  things  have 
Been  chosen  to  confound  the  strong.    And  he 
Who  call'd  of  old  that  mighty  Shepherd  King 
From  fold  to  throne,  may  so  have  summon'd  her. 

LATREMOILLE:  By  heaven,  De  Metz! 

You're  in  that  miracle  religious  line; 
Moses  himself  might  yield  his  rod  to  thee! 


DE  METZ:  Ah!  de  la  Tremoille 

You're  free,  I  do  admit,  from  such  a  charge. 

LA  TREMOILLE:  Supposing,  Charles, 

You  send  your  bishops  to  this  Maid — let  them 
Question  and  bring  her  answers  unto  thee. 

CHARLES:  Your  counsel  seemeth  good,  Seigneur — 

Let  it  be  done. 

********* 
Reverend  bishops,  what  of  this  Maid? 

BISHOP:  She  hath  a  message,  Your  Majesty;  but 

Will  impart  it  only  to  the  King. 

CHARLES:         And  does  the  Maid  refuse  the  bishops? 
BISHOP:  Positively! 

CHARLES  :         The  like  was  never  heard  in  France ! 
Good  bishops,  what  think  you  of  her? 

BISHOP:  She  hath  a  will,  Your  Majesty. 

CHARLES:  That's  plain. 

And  what  do  you  advise  ? 

BISHOP:  We  advise  the  King  to  receive  and  hear  her. 

LATREMOILLE -.Again  I  warn  you,  Charles,  beware! 

CHARLES:  You've  heard  my  bishops 

And  my  counsellors,  de  la  Tremoille.    Shall 
I  condemn  their  judgment — spurn  their  advice? 
My  royal  Aunt,  good  Queen  Yolande, 
You've  been  with  her.    What  say  you  of  this  Maid? 

[28] 


YOLANDE:         Aye,  Charles,  I  have  spent  hours  with  her. 
She's  spirit-filled  and  spirit-led — so  kind, 
So  unassuming  and  so  sweet — a  voice 
From  heaven.    The  one  foretold.     Receive  her,  Charles- 
She  brings  a  message  straight  from  God  to  thee. 

CHARLES:  Good  friends, 

It  is  my  duty  to  receive  the  Maid. 
If  she  is  not  such  as  she  claims  to  be, 
Or  you,  my  trusted  friends,  do  claim  for  her, 
Then — one  hour  squandered  in  a  novel  way, 
With  one  hoax  less  to  trouble  us.    - 
Dunois  will  take  my  place  upon  the  throne; 
I  in  disguise  will  mingle  with  the  guests. 
Accept  her  challenge  so  to  find  the  King. 


129] 


MAID: 


It's  evening  and 
The  royal  court  in  light  and  splendor  gleams — 
Gleams  with  its  mellow  radiance,  as  'twere 
Another  sun's.    Midst  gorgeous  robes,  great  names 
Of  fame  and  rank,  sweet  music  and  such  scenes 
And  charms,  as  royal  courts  alone  display, 
The  Maid  of  God  in  lowly  beauty  comes 
Led  by  great  Count  Vendome  and  brilliant  train. 
Flambeaux  and  flashing  jewels,  the  silver 
Trumpets  blown  by  the  heralds  of  the  King, 
The  pomp  and  dazzling  beauty  there  display' d, 
All  Jailed  to  discommode  that  one  sent  by 
The  King  of  Heaven.    Silence  reigned  supreme. 
All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  as  if  they'd 
Seen  a  vision  from  the  sky.     They  knew  the 
Secret.    Would  she  bow  to  Dunois,  robed  as  king 
And  seated  on  the  throne?    What  moments  these! 
She  paused,  but  did  not  bow.     She  spoke  and  said: 

Bastard  of  Orleans!  thou  art  not  the  King! 
A  seat  upon  the  throne  becomes  not  thee. 
God's  Maid  is  sent  unto  a  mightier  one. 

Then  turning,  she,  like  some  bright  spirit,  pass'd 
By  the  ones  in  brilliant  robes  array' d 
Until  she  reached  a  humbler  one,  clad  in 
More  lowly  garb.     There  falling  at  his  feet 
She  said: 


MAID: 
[30] 


Gentle  dauphin,  I  am  Jeanne  d'Arc, 
The  Maid  come  from  Lorraine.     I  bring  to  you 


CHARLES: 
MAID: 


CHARLES: 
MAID: 


CHARLES; 


MAID: 

CHARLES: 
MAID: 


A  message  from  the  King  of  Heaven.     God 

Hath  pity  for  you  and  his  people  too. 

The  angels  are  praying  for  you  and  for  them. 

Maid,  how  knowest  thou  me?    Thou  who  hast  not 
Seen  my  face  or  heard  my  voice. 

I  saw  thee,  gentle  dauphin,  in  the  night 
When  all  around  was  peaceful,  calm  and  still. 
Thou  did'st  arise  to  plead  with  God  in  prayer — 
That  prayer  I  will  reveal  to  thee,  likewise 
The  answer  thou  dost  long  to  know.     But  not 
In  this  great  presence  will  I  speak. 

Speak,  gentle  Maid.    Alas  my  secret  is 
Not  such  to  these. 

In  thy  first  prayer  thou  offerd'st  up  thyself 

In  sacrifice  for  unatoned  guilt 

Of  other  years,  which  caused  this  dreadful  war. 

Thou,  in  the  second  prayer,  didst  choose 

A  humble  life  with  peace,  rather  than  crown 

And  throne,  with  strife.    And  in  the  third — 

Nay,  wondrous  Maid.     For 
'Tis  enough!    Thy  knowledge  is  of  God,  whence 
Thou  art  come!    And  since  thou  art  endowed  with 
Wisdom  more  than  man's,  tell  me,  divinely 
Guided  one,  shall  I  indeed  prevail? 

Aye,  dauphin,  with  God  and  his  servant's  help; 
Not  otherwise. 

What  askest  thou,  O  Maid,  of  me,  the  King? 


An  army  of  brave  men. 


An  army,  dauphin — 


CHARLES: 

MAID: 
CHARLES: 


MAID: 

CHARLES; 

• 

MAID: 

CHARLES: 

MAID: 


What  knoweth  thou,  a  shepherdess,  of  war? 
Shears  are  not  swords.     Leading  an  army  i's 
Not  leading  sheep. 

Give  me  an  army  and  I'll  give  you  Orleans; 

And,  what  is  more,  I'll  crown  you  King  at  Rheims! 

O  Maid  of  God,  thou  knowest  not 
The  power  and  fierceness  of  the  foe.    How  great 
A  name  is  Britain.    How  small  compared  is 
France.    And  I,  its  more  than  question 'd  King 
Bow'd  down  in  such  a  low  humility. 
See  how  they  tell  me,  "Thou  art  not  the  King!" 

Thou  art  the  dauphin,  who  shall  be  King! 
Thou  shalt  be  crown 'd  at  Rheims! 

At  Rheims,  you  say? 
While  Britain's  in  control  of  land  and  sea 
And  all  the  world  as  well. 

I  care  not  for  Great  Britain's  power! 
Nor  all  the  world  besides.  I'll  lead  you  through 
The  hosts  of  Britain,  Burgundy  and  hell! 

Maid  of  God! 

Whose  soul  speaks  in  thy  voice.    The  King  grants  thy 
Request.    Tell  me  the  secret  of  thy  power. 

My  secret,  gentle  dauphin,  is  of  God. 
'Twas  in  my  childhood  in  Domremy  of 
Lorraine,  I  heard  men  tell,  around  the  fire, 
Of  our  dear  France  o'errun  by  foreign  foes; 
Our  brilliant  Paris  to  become  their  prize; 
The  crown  of  Charlemagne — that  glorious  crown — 
To  rest  upon  a  brow  not  born  of  us; 
Our  people  chafing  'neath  a  foreign  yoke. 


[3*1 


Then  I,  a  child,  in  great  distress  of  soul 

Betook  me  to  the  Druid  Tree.     Beneath 

That  Tree  of  sacred  name,  I  earnestly 

Implor'd  our  God,  his  holy  Mother  and 

His  Son,  that  they  deliver  France  and  thee. 

'Twas  in  the  twilight's  deepening  gloom,  when  peace 

And  beauty  were  upon  the  quiet  world, 

The  Holy  Mother,  she  appeared  and  spake 

To  me,  e'en  as  Archangel  Michael,  he 

Had  done,  aye,  many  times,  and  said:  "Jeanne,  fear 

Thee  not,  I  am  the  Virgin  Mother 

Of  the  Holy  Christ.     I've  chosen  thee.     Go 

Forth  in  God  his  strength,  and  crown  thy  dauphin 

King!    Deliver  France !" 

"O  Holy  Mother,  I  am  but  a  child," 

I  pled — "  ignorant,  poor  and  weak.    How  can 

So  small  a  one  do  this,  so  great  a  thing?" 

"Remain  a  virgin  pure,"  she  said,  "like  to 

Myself,  and  God  shall  bring  to  pass  his  will 

Through  thee." 

Her  lowly  garb  transferred,  the  Queen 

Of  Heaven  pass'd  in  radiant  beauty  from 

My  sight.     I  seem'd  a  spirit  freed  from  flesh, 

Walking  on  air.     In  great  humility 

Of  soul,  yet  conscious  of  some  strange  new  power, 

I  went  forth  to  obey. 

CHARLES  :  O  Maid  of  God ! 

I  now  appoint  thee  to  command  my  hosts. 

Take  thou  this  sword  of  fame,  long  prov'd  in  wars 

And  lead  thy  hosts  to  victory! 

MAID:  Nay,  gentle  dauphin, 

God's  servant  must  decline  thy  honor'd  blade. 
The  voices  have  reveal'd  my  sword  to  me. 
'Tis  in  St.  Catherine's  churchyard  vault,  conceal'd 
Within  an  ancient  tomb  mid  many  spoils 

[33] 


And  ruins  of  great  wars.    This  blade  is  marked 
By  three  plain  golden  links  engraven  thereon. 
I  pray  thee,  gentle  dauphin,  that  this  sword 
Be  brought.     Also  a  banner  of  pure  white. 
Upon  this  banner  let  the  artist  paint 
A  likeness  of  the  Holy  Mother's  face 
The  Christ  Child's  too — the  fleur-de-lis — the 
Sacred  names,  Jehsus  Maria. 

CHARLES  :  Maid  of  God, 

Every  command  of  thine  shall  be  obey'd. 
Captains,  behold  your  General-in-Chief  of 
The  Army  of  France! 

MAID:  Holy  Bishop,  lay  thy  hands 

In  consecration  on  my  head — commend 
Me  unto  him  through  whom  alone  his  poor 
Young  servant  can  prevail. 


[34] 


VI 

MAID'S  LETTER:  King  of  England,  Duke  of  Bedford, 

You  lord  lieutenants;  all  of  you,  falsely 
Call'd  Regents  of  the  Kingdom  of  France. 
I  warn  you  now  in  God  his  name,  yield  up 
The  keys  of  all  good  towns  of  France,  which  ye 
Have  taken.    Ye  arch  conspirators  in 
Arms,  before  the  walls  of  Orleans— get  ye 
Unto  your  country,  by  God  his  command, 
Or  we  will  come  upon  you  with  such  an 
Ha!  ha!  as  shall  be  remembered,  aye  this 
Thousand  years. 

Jeanne  la  Pucelle. 

Jehsus  Maria. 


SOLDIER: 
MAID: 


A  herald  from  the  King  of  England. 
Let  him  enter  and  let  him  speak. 


HERALD:  Where  is  this  witch  of  France, 

Who  calls  herself  the  "  Maid  of  God"? 

MAID:  Herald  of  England,  I  am  the  Maid  of  God! 

HERALD:  O  thou  unvirgin'd,  common,  vulgar  wench 

In  garb  of  man,  I  bring  thee — 

D'ALENCON:     Silence!  thou  coward  herald  of  England's 
Usurping  Prince!    Not  in  the  presence  of 


[351 


A  knight  of  France,  shalt  thou  insult 
God's  Maid. 


MAID: 


HERALD: 

MAID: 
HERALD: 


MAID: 
HERALD: 

MAID: 


Nay,  worthy  D'Alencon, 
Permit  their  well-bred  servant  to  give  vent 
To  England's  spirit  and  her  King's,  which  will 
Ere  long  achieve  their  own  defeat.     Courteous 
Herald,  what  august  personage  is  he 
Who  speaks  with  such  a  tongue  as  thine? 

Impudent  enchantress  and  deluder 

Of  thy  breed,  I  speak  for  His  Grace,  the  Earl 

Of  Salsbury,  Britain's  noblest  chief. 

Then  you  speak 
Not  for  the  living,  but  for  the  dead. 

Dead!  you  say? 

That  were  good  news  for  France.     Tis  well  the  false 
Inspirer  of  delusions  like  to  thine 
Hath  not  the  power  to  make  them  so.    Our  chief 
Will  show  the  wretch'd  France  he's  much  alive 
Ere  long,  with  Orleans  in  his  grasp. 

At  Orleans  yesterday,  your  chief,  he  fell. 

Ye  gods!  what  vague  delusions  haunt 
Those  witch-enchanted  minds.     For  e  'en  if  such 
A  thing  were  true,  how  could  the  news  have  come 
To  thee  from  Orleans  in  a  day  ? 

Herald  of  England, 

Tis  given  the  Maid  of  God  to  see,  discern 
And  know  the  things  he  hath  conceal'd  from  thee, 
Thy  King,  his  lords  and  his  accomplices. 
Therefore  if  thou  encounter  not  thy  dead 
Chief's  funeral  train  on  thy  return,  be  these 


[36] 


And  God  my  witnesses,  that  I  resign 
Command  and  will  return  unto  my  home, 
My  staff  and  sheep,  and  here  be  seen  no  more. 

HERALD:  God  pity  England,  should  her  words  prove  true! 

And  they  did. 


MAID:  Now,  Frenchmen  brave, 

In  God  his  name,  on  to  the  fight,  and  on 
To  victory!    Prove  to  the  mothers  who  have 
Given  you  birth — those  dear  old  souls  who've  borne 
The  burdens  of  their  dreadful  day — that  their 
Brave  sons,  who  bleed  and  die  for  France,  they  do 
Not  bleed  and  die  in  vain.    Who  fights  for  God, 
He  wins,  who  fights  for  France,  he  fights  for  God! 
Behold  your  banner  white  as  angel's  robe, 
With  fleur-de-lis,  image  of  the  Virgin 
Mother,  the  Holy  Child.    This  banner  wins! 
Vive  la  France!    Victoire!    La  France — sauvee! 


[371 


VII 


MAID: 

LIEUTENANT: 

MAID: 

LIEUTENANT: 

MAID: 

DUNOIS: 

MAID: 

DUNOIS: 

MAID: 


Lieutenant,  why  this  disobedience  of  my  command? 

General,  the  project  seem'd  impossible 
To  those  acquainted  with  the  art  of  war. 

Who  leads  this  army  and  who  makes  these  plans? 
Is  this  the  work  of  man  or  God? 

General,  behold  Dunois, 
He  comes  from  Orleans  and  he  will  explain. 

Then  let  Dunois  in  God  his  name,  explain 
Why  the  army  is  on  this  side  the  river, 
Which  I  commanded  to  advance  on  that? 

The  English  have  erected  barriers  great 

And  strong.    No  force  can  conquer  till  it  starves 

Them  out. 

That  means  months  of  waiting,  and  God's  cause,  it 
Must  not  wait. 

General,  we  acted  as  we  believe  you  would 
Have  done,  had  you  been  there. 

Come,  Dunois,  tell  me  now 
Of  what  more  use  the  army  can  be  here 
Than  if  'twere  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea? 
You  would  deceive  me,  who've  deceiv'd  yourselves, 
Unless  God  interpose  none  other  can. 
Hence  in  his  name  I  now  command  you  march 


[38] 


The  army  back,  unto  Burgundy's  gate, 
Then  on  to  Talbot  and  the  English  as 
At  first  I  gave  command. 


Who  is  the  man  on  yonder  van 
Bound  hand  and  foot? 

LIEUTENANT:    A  mighty  soldier,  General,  a  giant 

Call'd  the  "  Dwarf.'*    Tomorrow  he'll  be  hanged. 

MAID:  Hanged?     For  what? 

LIEUTENANT:  Desertion,  General, 

He  sought  leave  to  go  see  his  dying  wife; 
It  was  not  granted,  yet  he  went. 

MAID:  But  he  returned  again. 

LIEUTENANT:  True, 

But  not  until  the  men  were  on  the  march. 

MAID:  He  a  deserter! 

Name  of  God!     Bring  him  to  me — 
His  wrists,  they're  bleeding.     I  will  bandage  them. 

LIEUTENANT:  Nay,  General,  nay! 

Such  work  must  not  be  done  by  thee. 

MAID:  De  par  le  Dieu:  Don't  I  know  how? 

If  I  had  bandaged  them,  they'd  not  have  bled. 
If  given  freedom,  will  you  fight  for  France? 

"DWARF:"        I'll  fight  for  you,  General,  you'll  be  my  France. 
LIEUTENANT:  Nay,  General,  it  must  not  be! 

[39] 


MAID:  Why  not? 

LIEUTENANT:    This  man  is  sentenced  to  be  hanged. 

MAID:  What  if  he  is?    Is  not  my  word  supreme? 

This  man,  he's  free!    Loose  ye  his  cords! 


'Tis  brilliant  night. 

The  clouds  have  scattered  and  the  silvery  moon 
Pours  down  her  queenly  beauty  on  the  towers, 
And  palaces  and  domes  of  ancient  Orleans. 
O  glorious  scene!    A  surging  sea  of  life! 
Torch  lights,  as  'twere  a  firmament  of  stars. 

MULTITUDE:  She  comes!  she  comes!    The  Maid  of  God! 

Behold  her  face!     Tis  beautiful.     See  how 
It  shines,  as  with  celestial  light — 

and  so 

The  people  kneeling  kiss'd  her  garment's  hem 
And  hailed  her  as  the  one  from  heaven  sent. 
With  bugles,  bands,  sweet  chiming  bells,  loud  guns. 
The  Maid  of  God  was  given  royal 
Welcome  into  old  Orleans. 


MAID:  French  blood  is  flowing  and 

The  call  to  action  comes.  Up  gallant  men ! 
On  to  the  fight!  Follow  your  flag !  Behold 
The  fleur-de-lis! 


D'ALENCON:     Our  General's  first  experience  in  the  fight. 
See  to  it,  Dunois,  she  stays  in  the  rear. 

[40] 


Their  care  is  vain — 

For  when  the  French  overpowered  are  falling  back 
She  rides  in  scorn  of  danger,  to  the  front. 
Loud,  brave  and  clear,  above  the  noise  of  war 
Comes  her  command: 

MAID:  Forward  brave  men !    Follow 

Your  leader  and  her  banner  white!     Follow 
To  battle  and  to  victory! 

At  sight  of  her,  they  rushed  upon  the  foe — 
Rushed  forward  with  the  force  of  ocean  waves, 
Sweeping  the  astounded,  terror-stricken 
Englishmen  away.     That  giant  "Dwarf!" 
God!  how  he  fought.     'Twas  wonderful,  the  way 
In  which  he  wielded  his  great  battle-ax. 
At  every  stroke  an  English  helmet  and 
Its  owner  fell.     Until  the  enemy 
In  wild  confusion,  quit  the  field. 


MAID:  Another  fight,  you  ask  and  now? 

Why  men  we've  but  begun. 

DUNOIS:  At  this  time,  General, 

It  were  madness  to  advance.     More  wisdom 
In  delay.     I'll  call  our  forces  back. 

MAID:  You'll  obey  my  orders,  Dunois, 

And  play  no  longer  into  English  hands. 
Waste  no  more  time!    Bid  bugles  sound  assault! 


Another  victory  for  the  French  was  won. 
Another  and  yet  more,  until  the  last 
Great  battle  came.    Jeanne  had  foretold  this  fight, 
Its  outcome  and  the  wound  she  would  receive. 


CATHERINE:  You  say  you  will  be  wounded 

On  the  morrow,  Jeanne? 

MAID:  Yes,  Catherine,  on  the  morrow; 

I've  so  informed  my  parents  and  my  friends. 

CATHERINE:  How  do  you  know  this  thing,  my  dear? 

MAID:  As  I  know  other  things. 

My  voices,  they  have  told  me  so. 

CATHERINE:      Then  you  must  keep  out  of  the  fight. 

MAID:  No,  no,  my  dear,  I  must  go  in, 

Since  on  my  leadership  the  fight  depends. 

CATHERINE:      But  if  you're  wounded  you  may  die,  dear  Jeanne. 
MAID:  To  die  for  France  is  gloriously  to  live. 


BRITISH 
GENERAL: 


[42] 


The  fight  was  bloody,  fierce  and  long.    For  hours 
The  tide  of  battle  ebbed  and  flowed.    English 
Fought  like  devils  and  the  French  the  same.    What 
Battle  strength!    What  warrior  s  skill  on  either 
Side  was  shown!    What  clashing  of  the  blades! 
What  thrusts  and  flashing  of  that  glittering  steel! 
What  wild,  loud  shouts  of  fighting,  and  what  groans 
Of  dying  men!    And  o'er  it  all  one  voice — 
Their  General's  voice  in  clear,  commanding  tones, 
Inspiring  her  brave  men,  until  a  sword- 
Thrust  brought  their  gallant  leader  to  the  ground. 
A  shout  of  wildest  exultation  from 
The  enemy  arose. 

Seize,  quickly  seize 
And  bind  her  with  strong  cords.     In  binding  her 


You're  binding  France!     Daughter  of  Satan  and 
Enchantress  of  thy  breed,  thy  life  is  mine! 

//  would  have  been,  but  for  the  giant  "Dwarf 
Who  sprang  with  strength  immortal  to  her  side, 
Mowing  the  British  like  afield  of  grain. 
God!  what  moments  these!    If  she  were  captured, 
France  was  lost,  her  people  slaves.     The  mighty 
Giant  bore  her  safely  from  the  fray. 


MESSENGER:     The  French  are  being  overpowered; 
They're  beating  a  retreat. 


MAID:  Retreat!    The  French!    In  God  his  name,  no!    No! 

Exclaims  the  wounded  Maid,  leaping  upon 
Her  horse,  the  crimson  stream  still  gushing  from 
Her  wound.     She  seemed  inspired  beyond  restraint, 
As  madly  she  dashed  to  the  battle's  front, 
Calling  aloud: 

MAID:  Brave  soldiers,  follow  me, 

The  fight  is  God's  and  his  the  victory! 

The  French  rose  in  their  might;  fought  like  demons 
Till  the  British  fled  and  France  was  saved. 

MULTITUDE:     Maid  of  Orleans!     Maid  of  God!     Savior  of 

France!     Saint  of  Lorraine,  Sister  of  our  Lord! 

In  chorus  from  the  multitude  arose. 
'Twas  like  unto  music  of  the  sea. 

Then  Jeanne,  with  her  brave  army  march' d 


[43] 


Triumphant  into  Tours.     There  she  was  met 
And  welcomed  royally  by  Charles. 


CHARLES; 


MAID: 

CHARLES; 
MAID: 

CHARLES: 
MAID: 

CHARLES; 
[44] 


All  hail!    All  hail! 

Thou  God-anointed  heroine,  said  Charles. 
The  songs  of  angels  are  within  thy  heart! 
Thine  is  the  victory!  the  victory! 
Kind  heaven  speaks  the  word.    O  thou,  my  well- 
Beloved  child,  hear  thou  my  praise!     My  life 
Would  at  this  moment  give  itself  for  thee! 
Since  royal  honors  are  indeed  thy  due, 
Here  in  the  presence  of  this  august  court 
I  bid  thee  name  thy  just  reward. 

Gentle  dauphin, 

I  have  but  one  request  to  make  of  thee, 
'Tis  this;  march  with  me  unto  Rheims  and  there 
Receive  thy  crown. 

To  Rheims,  brave  Jeanne!    To  Rheims!    Impossible! 
It  is  a  way  beset  with  countless  foes. 

I,  with  my  army  will  advance  before. 
I'll  clear  the  way  of  all  thy  foes,  as  God 
His  lightning  and  his  thunder  clear  the  air. 

Time  General,  time  to  think — 
Then  I  will  answer  you. 

The  time,  O  gentle  dauphin,  is  so  short, 
And  there's  so  much  to  do,  and  I — I  have 
But  one  brief  year  to  live. 

One  year  to  live! 
Why  speak  you  so,  dear  Jeanne  ? 


MAID:  Because  my  voices,  they  have  told  me  this. 

CHARLES:  My  child,  you  have  got  fifty  years, 

Aye,  fifty  long  and  happy  years  to  live. 
Upon  thy  shoulder  I  now  place  my  sword 
And  by  this  accolade  do  join  thee  and 
Thy  family  and  their  kin — descendants  born 
In  wedlock,  to  the  royal  house  of  France, 
And  give  unto  the  females  of  thy  line 
The  power  their  husbands  to  ennoble  when 
Of  less  degree — an  honor  not  bestow'd 
On  anyone  till  now.    Arise,  Jeanne  d'Arc. 
Henceforth  surnamed  Du  Lis! 


[451 


MAID: 


[46] 


VIII 

The  city  was  a  scene  of  wild  delight, 

Of  splendor  opulent  and  unapproach'd. 

Proud  Rheims  had  witness 'd  many  a  glorious  day, 

But  none  like  this.     The  vast  cathedral  in 

Its  splendor  shone;  sweet,  mellow  chimes  pour  d  from 

Its  ponderous  towers  and  moving  down  its  broad,  rich  aisles 

That  august  throng — victorious  generals,  captains 

And  ecclesiastics  in  their  gorgeous 

Bright  array;  the  great  Archbishop  leading 

In  robes  of  power.    Sentinels  riding  on  their 

Shining  livery,  bearing  aloft  the 

Feudal  banners  bright  and  proud  and  high. 

Never  a  scene  in  Rheims  so  glorious. 

The  signal  for  the  royal  march  was  given; 

The  silence  broken  by  sweet  music  from 

Four  hundred  shining  silver  trumpeters — 

Then  at  the  towering  archway  of  the  west, 

Came  Charles  and  Jeanne  advancing  side  by  side 

With  peers  and  bishops  in  their  royal  train. 

Kneeling  at  the  altar,  all  glorious  in 

Full  splendor  of  its  light  and  in  presence 

Of  that  august  multitude,  the  dauphin 

Was  anointed  with  the  holy  oil,  the 

Ancient  crown  of  Dagobert  placed  on  his 

Royal  brow,  and  Charles  was  King  of  France!     The 

Maid's  fond  dream  fulfilled — she  sought  not  royal 

Honors  or  reward;  only  release. 

Gentle  King,  on  bended  knee,  she  pleads:  My 
Work,  with  God  his  help  is  done.    You  have  been 
Crown'd  King  at  Rheims.    O,  give  me  now  your 
Peace;  and  in  that  peace  permit  thy  servant 


To  return  unto  my  humble  home;  my 
Mother  old  and  poor,  who  needs  me  much. 

The  King  assisted  Jeanne  unto  her  feet. 
Confirm  d  the  royal  honors  heretofore 
Bestowed  and  said: 

KING:  Great  Maid  of  God,  demand 

What  now  thou  wilt  and  unto  thee  it  shall 
Be  given,  aye,  though  its  granting  make  my 
Kingdom  poor. 

MAID:  O  gentle  King, 

My  one  and  only  wish  is  this,  that  thou 
Release  my  struggling,  poor  Domremy  from 

The  heavy  burdens  of  tax. 

\ 

KING:  'Tis  done,  great  Maid — 

Domremy  is  hereby  released  from  tax 
Forever  and  a  day.    What  more  dost  thou 
Require?    Speak  and  say  on. 

MAID:  That's  all,  my  gentle  King;  save  to  return. 


MAID:  Not  yet  brave  soldiers,  can  we  lay  down  arms. 

My  King  may  not  release  his  servant  now. 
Our  glorious  Paris  is  in  Britain's  grasp — 
We'll  march  and  take  it  too,  in  God  his  name! 

Before  that  final  march  Compiegne,  Beauvais 
And  many  strongholds  of  the  British  fell. 
Paris  awaiting  to  surrender  at  the 
Maid's  command  is  not  allowed.    For  /0,  'tis 
Treason!  now — deep,  dark  and  damnable!     The 
Wretched  coward  whom  she  crowned  and  saved  has 
Played  into  the  British  hands.    Yet  bravely 

[47] 


Did  she  fight,  divinely  win,  until  her 
Time  had  come.     Then  overpowered  and 
Captured  in  the  fierce  battle  of Mar  guy, 
Jeanne  cTArc  was  led  a  prisoner  to  the  camp 
Of  Burgundy. 

The  first  strange  chapter  in  her  life  was  closed! 
The  second  to  begin,  aye  and  to  end 
In  tragedy  more  deep  and  dark  and  sad 
Than  only  that  of  Christ  and  Calvary's. 


[48] 


PART  II 
I 

MAID:  Besieged!  ah!  poor  Compiegne! 

Women  and  children  massacred!    And  I 
Did  give  my  promise  to  de  Flavy,  that  I 
Would  come  and  help  him  in  the  fight.     But  here 
I  am,  a  prisoner,  in  this  stronghold 
Of  dark  Beauvais.    Mother  of  Christ!    Thy  help! 

Escaped,  recaptured,  yet  in  spirit  she 

Fought,  and  in  that  mighty  spirit  led  till 

Victory  had  come  to  Compiegne  and  to 

France.     The  British  thus  enraged  to  frenzy, 

Believed  her  magic  spell  inspired  the  French^ 

That  power  must  be  destroyed, 

Or  Britain's  cause  was  lost.     To  kill  the 

Body  were  an  easy  thing,  but  such 

A  soul  as  hers  released  would  make  the  French 

Invincible. 


MAID:  You  may  kill  me,  brave  Jeanne 

Told  them,  but  you  never  will  get  France. 
Then  angry  Stafford  drew  his  murderous  blade, 
But  Warick  siezed  his  arm  and  held  him  back. 


WARICK:  Thou  fool!  he  yelled,  kill  not  the  Maid  now  in 

Her  purity.  Her  unstain'd  spirit  would 
Unto  those  superstitious  French  become 
A  power  divine  and  irresistible. 


[49] 


STAFFORD: 
WARICK: 


STAFFORD: 
WARICK: 


STAFFORD: 
WARICK: 

STAFFORD: 
WARICK: 

STAFFORD: 

[5°) 


Then,  Warick,  tell  me,  in  the  devil's  name 
What  shall  we  do? 

Know  you  not,  Stafford,  that  she  hath  been  sold  ? 
Sold  by  Luxemburg  to  Burgundy,  aye 
For  the  ransom  of  a  queen.     Now  let  the 
Nation's  enemy  be  made  to  serve  the 
Nation  she  hath  well-nigh  destroyed. 

That  were  a  boon,  but  how,  my  Warick,  how? 

Hand  her  right  over  to  the  holy  church, 

Demanding  she  be  tried  for  heresy. 

There  she'll  be  branded  and,  perchance,  be  burn'd 

For  being  a  sorceress,  idolatress 

And  witch. 

A  devilish  bonny  scheme,  my  friend, 
I  ft  can  be  worked. 

The  way  is  plain,  at  least  to  me. 
Pierre  Cauchon  is  aching  to  become 
The  Archbishop  of  Rouen.    Winchester 
In  like  manner,  thirsts  for  Jeanne  d'Arc's  life. 

God's  bones!  my  Warick,  but  that  were  a  trade 
If — if  only  it  could  be — 

Leave  that  to  Cauchon  and  to  Winchester — 
To  La  Tremoille  and  Loyseleur.    Save  in 
His  Majesty  from  hell,  they're  not  surpass'd. 

Ah,  Warick!  but  all  France  is  with  the  Maid; 

She  holds  the  people  by  her  magic  spell. 

Would  Charles  keep  silent,  whom  she  crown'd  and  saved? 


WARICK:  Therein,  O  Stafford,  lies  your  big  mistake — 

French  warriors  are  jealous  of  great  Jeanne; 
She  has  eclipsed  their  glory  like  the  earth 
The  sun's.    And  know  you  not,  Charles,  even  now 
Is  fast  in  England's  clutch?    Think  you  a  man 
Like  Charles  will  risk  his  crown,  his  traitorous  soul, 
To  save  e'en  she,  who  made  him  King?    Not  he! 


II 


The  holy  court  is  now  convened — 
The  Sanhedrin  of  France.    It  is  composed 
Of  many  wise  and  saintly  and  great  men. 
Unto  its  mandates  all  must  bow; from  its 
Decisions  there's  but  one  appeal.     The 
Maid  of  God,  a  prisoner  in  chains ,  stands 
Now  before  a  court  of  enemies — 
The  triple -chinned^  black-hearted  Bishop  of 
Beauvais,  her  fiercest  foe,  presiding  Judge. 
No  one  permitted  to  appear  or  speak 
A  single  word  in  her  defense.     Yet  in 
Her  purity  and  strength,  with  wisdom  more 
Than  man's  endowed,  she  put  the  cowards  of 
The  "holy  "  church  to  shame,  and  sent  them  down 
To  infamy  forever  and  a  day. 


MAID: 


CAUCHON; 
MAID: 

la] 


My  holy  Judge,  and 
Consecrated  servants  of  our  Lord: 
You've  found  his  servant  guilty  of  the  crime, 
Which  merits  death. 

Since  no  one's  been  allowed  here  to  appear 
Or  speak  in  her  behalf,  in  God  his  name, 
May  not  his  Maid  speak  for  herself? 

I  see  no  purpose  that  your  speech  may  serve. 

And  dare  you  deny  my  right  to  speak 
Who  have  denied  an  advocate?    How  dare 
You  now  condemn  to  death  the  one  whom  you 
Already  did  prejudge  and  so  condemn? 


MULTITUDE:     Let  her  speak. 

MAID:  You  find  me  guilty  of  the  crime  of  death! 

I  thank  my  God  that  your  decision  does 
Not  make  true  my  guilt.    You  ask  me  now 
To  tell  you  more  about  the  voices  you 
Call  "  false."     In  God  his  name,  what  may  I  say 
That  I've  not  said  before  the  holy  court? 
I  was  a  gentle  little  maid  in  lone 
Domremy  of  Lorraine — taught  young  to  pray, 
To  say  my  creed,  to  love  my  holy  church 
And  priest,  and  to  confess  my  sins.     I  knew 
No  world  beyond  the  quiet  hills  and  vales 
O'er  which  I  led  my  sheep,  tended  my  lambs. 
I  was  a  happy  and  contented  child, 
Until  a  spirit  strange  disturbed  my  peace. 
Twas  when  I  heard  men  tell  how  our  dear  France 
Was  being  assail'd  by  foreign  foes;  and  how 
My  dauphin,  he  would  be  obliged  to  flee; 
The  ancient  crown  of  Charlemagne  adorn 
A  foreign  brow;  our  harvests  and  our  homes 
Laid  waste;  our  sacred  soil  turned  red  with  blood — 
The  blood  of  our  dear  slain;  our  glorious  France 
The  vassalage  of  foreign  power — could  I 
Find  ease  or  rest  in  my  dear  country's  peril  ? 
Upon  the  hillsides  of  my  lowly  care 
I  pray'd,  I  pleaded  and  I  importuned, 
Aye,  agonized  with  God,  that  he  would  send 
Deliverance  to  France.     While  thus  I  did 
Beseechingly  implore  and  plead,  a  thing 
Took  place  more  wonderful  than  words  can  tell. 
The  hills  and  trees  became  most  strangely  clothed 
With  light  and  life,  and  I  was  lifted  up 
And  borne  along,  as  if  on  wings. 
'Twas  then  Archangel  Michael,  he  appeared 
And  spake  to  me.    At  first  I  was  afraid, 
But  the  angel,  he  was  O,  so  kind  and 


[53] 


Sweet.     I  loved  to  meet  and  talk  with  him,  which 
I  did  day  by  day.    "  I  am  Archangel 
Michael,  sent  from  God,"  he  said,  "  to  tell  thee 
That  thou  art  his  Maid — the  one  appointed 
To  deliver  France.'*    My  pleas  of  youth  and 
Ignorance,  that  none  would  believe  or  follow 
Me  could  not  avail.     "Your  God  will  guide,"  the 
Angel  said,  "his  Maid,  she  must  obey." 
The  holy  Virgin  Mother  likewise  came 
To  me;  she  sweetly  warned  me  to  obey. 
You  know  what  happened — what  has  come  to  pass. 
The  French,  they  triumphed,  though  but  few  and  weak. 
With  God  his  help  we've  overcome  the  strong; 
France,  if  she  has  not  been  betray'd,  is  saved; 
Charles,  he  is  crowned  King;  Rheims  proudly  stands! 
Orleans  is  free!    Compiegne  secure;  where  now 
The  boasting  British  with  their  wealth  and  power? 
Has  not  our  God  wrought  wonders  through  his  Maid? 
You  will  condemn  and  burn  me  at  the  stake, 
But  in  that  very  flame  I'll  pray  for  you, 
And  God's  good  angel  will  be  there  to  shield 
My  soul.    And  though  you  kill  me,  you  will  not 
Get  France.    I'll  be  her  guardian  angel  in 
The  years  to  come. 


WINCHESTER:   Congratulations,  Bishop  of  Beauvais! 

Exclaimed  the  Cardinal — great  Winchester — 

WINCHESTER:  The  trial  surely  was  a  grand  success. 

You've  branded  Jeanne  a  wicked  sorceress, 

A  witch  and  an  idolatress,  in  league 

With  Satan  and  the  spirits  of  the  damn'd, 

And  you've  done  well.     For  this,  I'm  told,  you  seek 

The  great  archbishopric.     Seek  you  that  honor 

At  the  hand  of  Charles? 

[54] 


BISHOP;  Why  not,  Your  Eminence,  since  Charles,  he  is 

The  lawful  King  of  France? 

WINCHESTER:   But  tell  me,  Cauchon,  what  worth  or  honor 
In  an  archbishopric  conferred  upon 
You  by  a  king  crowned  by  a  witch?    That 
Honor  to  be  genuine,  must  come  from 
England's  King. 

BISHOP:  Your  Eminence, 

Jeanne  stands  up  boldly  for  her  King  and  France. 
The  people,  they  do  largely  stand  with  her, 
Claiming  that  she  has  fought  with  God  and  won 
Against  Great  Britain,  which  fought  with  its  hosts 
And  lost.     Charles  is  to  France  her  lawful  King. 
What  he  bestows  is  genuine  to  her. 

WINCHESTER:   But  not  to  England  or  her  clergy  or 

Her  King.    Therefore  what  honor  in  a  thing, 
Which  England  honors  not?    And  when  the  French 
Become  convinced  that  she  who  crowned  their  King 
Is  but  a  sorceress  and  witch,  what  then  ? 
A  sorry  plight  for  you  and  Charles. 

BISHOP:  In  such  a  case, 

What  would  Your  Eminence  advise? 

WINCHESTER:  You've  gone  so  far,  you  now  must  go  the  length. 
Cut  clear  from  Charles.    He's  only  King  in  name. 
Hurl  thou  that  female  bone  of  all  this  damn'd 
Contention  to  the  dogs.    Give  England  that 
Which  she  desires  and  she  will  grant  the  boon 
That  Cauchon  seeks. 

BISHOP:  Would  England  grant  it  for  her  life? 

WINCHESTER:   Give  me  her  ashes  and  I  pledge  you,  sir, 
The  great  archbishopric  of  Rouen  shall 
Be  yours. 


BISHOP:  Aye,  Cardinal,  but  there's  the  rub — 

In  dealing  with  this  Jeanne,  we  deal  with  France. 

WINCHESTER:   But  France  will  not  defend  a  sorceress 
And  a  witch! 

BISHOP:  True,  Your  Eminence,  and  yet 

E'en  our  decision  does  not  make  it  so. 
His  Holiness,  the  Pope  alone,  is  to 
Our  folks  infallible.     If  only  we 
Could  make  the  Maid  confess  unto  the  things 
Whereof  she  hath  in  holy  council  been 
Condemned,  we  then  could  burn  her  at  the  stake. 

WINCHESTER:  You  have  the  means  for  that,  Cauchon, 

As  God  and  devil  know.    Torture  and  flame, 
Fear  of  eternal  fire.     What  instruments 
Hath  not  the  Holy  Church  with  which  to  force 
Offenders  of  her  iron  will  ? 

BISHOP:  But  Jeanne  is  fearless,  believing  she  is  right. 

She'll  die,  but  not  confess. 

WINCHESTER:  Tis  your  mistake — 

She's  weary  of  her  prison  cage  and  chains; 
She  loathes  the  company  of  vulgar  men; 
She  longs  to  be  restored  again  unto 
The  Holy  Church.     Assure  her  these  rewards 
In  sight  of  torture,  fire  and  hell.    She'll  yield. 

BISHOP:  But  that  is  not  to  rid  ourselves  of  Jeanne. 

WINCHESTER:   And  see  you  not  a  farther  scheme,  Cauchon? 
BISHOP:  How  can  a  man  see  through  a  wall  of  stone? 

WINCHESTER:   Easily  so,  when  someone  makes  a  hole. 

[56] 


BISHOP: 


I  see  the  wall,  but  not  the  hole. 


WINCHESTER:  Your  skull  is  thicker,  Pierre,  than  your  neck. 
Come  listen  here:    Prepare  a  statement  mild 
Enough  for  her  to  sign,  through  fear  of  fire 
And  pain  and  hell.     Likewise  a  greater  and 
More  fatal  one.     And  when  she  is  about 
To  sign — 


BISHOP: 


I  see,  Your  Eminence,  I  see 


Clear  through  the  wall. 


BISHOP:  You  see  the  rack,  O,  Jeanne, 

They  say  its  pain  is  hell.    Now  just  confess — 
With  your  own  lips  declare  the  findings  of 
The  court  are  true.     Submit  your  soul  unto 
The  Holy  Church  and  be  forgiven. 

MAID:  Nay,  Pierre  Cauchon! 

Not  e'en  this  rack,  these  chains,  this  torture  or 
This  prison  hell,  can  make  God's  Maid  confess 
To  what  is  wrong.    And  if  by  pain  I  should 
Be  forced  to  say  aught  else,  I'd  always  say 
Thereafter,  that  it  was  the  pain,  not  I 
That  spoke. 

WINCHESTER:   She  will  confess  and  she'll  recant  in  sight 
Of  fire,  pain,  death  and  endless  doom. 


//  is  the  Holy  Church  of  St.  Ouen. 

CITIZEN:  What  mean  the  open  gates;  the  glaring  lights; 

The  many  toilers  rushing  to  and  fro; 
Those  countless  torches  turning  night  to  day? 


[57] 


OFFICER:  O,  ill-informed  and  ignorant, 

That  knoweth  not  what  is  on  every  tongue. 

CITIZEN:  You  mean  the  burning  of  Jeanne  d'Arc? 

OFFICER:  What  else? 

CITIZEN:  We  hear  no  less  denials  of  the  same; 

We'd  learn  the  truth. 

OFFICER:  The  truth  is  this: 

Upon  the  morrow  ere  yon  bell  strikes  out 
High  noon,  Jeanne  d'Arc,  the  witch  of  France,  shall  here 
Be  burned  alive! 


F581 


Ill 

The  martyr  s  day  has  dawned! 
The  royal  guests  and  holy  men,  highest 
Of  rank  in  church  and  state,  are  there.     What 
More  for  their  sweet  comfort  could  have  been?    Rich 
Purple  canopies  to  shield  from  rain  and 
Sun,  soft  carpeting,  cushioned  seats  of  ease. 
Here  on  a  special  platform,  higher  raised, 
Recline  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais, 
His  Royal  Eminence,  the  great  English 
Cardinal,  with  their  renowned  colleagues. 
Above  the  platform  in  its  horror  stands 
The  grizzly,  frowning  stake  of  pain  and  death; 
Beneath  it  glows  the  ruddy,  burning  coals. 
Fagots  of  wood,  the  executioners 
In  purple  robes  arrayed,  while  reaching  far 
Beyond,  a  level  sea  of  human  heads. 

The  martyr  s  hour  has  come! 

Look  yonder!    "  Lo!  she  comes!"  they  cry.     yTis  she! 
The  Maid  of  God,  with  English  escort  from 
Her  iron  cage.     Clank,  clank  the  chains  upon 
Her  wrists  and  feet.     Though  worn  and  weak,  she's  forced 
To  walk,  dragging  her  chains.     That  heart  of  stone — 
The  brutal  Loyseleur—is  by  her  side, 
His  foul  mouth  whispering  in  the  Maid's  pure  ear. 

Confess,  O  Jeanne! 
Abjure,  recant,  and  so  you  shall  obtain 
Forgiveness  of  your  sins,  protection  in 
The  Holy  Church,  deliverance  from  hell. 

MAID:  Confess,  you  say, 

[59] 


PRIEST: 


PRIEST: 


MAID: 
PRIEST: 


Confess  to  what — a  lie,  to  something  which 
I  know  would  not  be  true  ?    No,  no !    Not  I ! 

Confess,  poor  child,  and  be  you  saved, 
Came  voices  from  the  pleading  priests. 

Think  well 

What  this  will  mean  to  you.     No  longer  in 
An  iron  cage;  no  longer  dragging  on 
Your  weary  feet  and  wrists  those  galling  chains; 
No  more  in  company  with  vulgar  men, 
But  in  a  woman's  prison  with  her  care. 
And  then  your  soul,  dear  child,  your  soul  within 
The  shelter  of  the  holy  church. 

Name  of  God!    What  do  you  mean ? 
Aren't  they  about  to  burn  me  here  and  now? 

Not  if  you  do  as  we  require. 
Confess,  recant,  and  you  shall  not  be  burn'd. 


WINCHESTER:  She's  weakening  now,  Your  Eminence, 

Weakening  in  body  and  in  mind.  The  rack 
Is  God's  own  instrument,  by  which  to  force 
Offenders  to  his  will. 

BISHOP:  The  fire,  the  fire, 

Stir  up  the  fire, 

Commands  Cauchon,  speaking 
Unto  the  executioners  beneath. 
His  coarse  and  brutal  voice  rose  with  the  flame — 
Reading  the  sentence  of  her  cruel  death. 
Exhausted,  weak  and  hardly  conscious  now. 
She  dropped  upon  her  knees  and  said  in  low 
And  feeble  tones: 


MAID:  I  do  submit. 

The  studied  action  was  both  swift  and  sure. 
The  lying  document  was  then  withdrawn. 
The  long  and  fatal  one  slipped  in  its  stead. 
The  Vampire  of  the  English  King  then  gave 
Sure  guidance  to  the  hand  that  was  not  taught 
To  write.     Thus  was  she  forced  to  falsely  swear 
Herself  to  be  a  sorceress ,  witch,  and  an 
Idolatress,  in  league  with  Satan,  and 
The  spirits  of  the  damnd. 

BISHOP:  I  now  declare 

Her  excommunication  is  hereby 
Dissolved, 

The  Bishop  said,  and  Jeanne's  face  shone 
As  with  a  holy  light.    From  her  worn  soul 
A  burden  jell.     'Twas  what  she  longed  to  hear. 
How  sad  what  followed,  speech  can  never  tell. 

BISHOP:  But  that  she  do  repent 

Of  her  dark  crimes,  commit  those  crimes  no  more. 
I  sentence  her  unto  perpetual 
Imprisonment,  the  bread  of  anguish  there 
To  eat  and  water  of  affliction  drink. 

MAID:  Take  me  unto  the  woman's  prison,  sir, 

As  solemnly  you  did  agree  to  do. 

BISHOP:  Take  her 

Unto  the  prison  whence  she  came, 

The  fiend  replied.     The  die  was  cast,  the  deed 
Was  done  and  innocence  once  more  betrayed 
Into  the  hands  of  sinful  men. 
Postponed!     The  burning  of  the  Maid! 


[61] 


The  feast  of  rarest  joy  not  to  be  served? 
Curses  and  railings  fill  the  air.     Cauchon  s  in 
Danger  of  the  mob.    Few  know  as  yet  the 
Subtle  secret  of  the  studied  scheme. 

BISHOP:  Subdue  your  wrath,  he  whispers,  and  I  will 

Explain.     We  must  not  burn  her  now — one 
Other  step  remains.     You  shall  not  be 
Denied  your  pleasure,  friends.     'Twill  be  the 
Sweeter  when  it  comes. 

WINCHESTER:   Explain  your  tactics,  Cauchon,  or  by  the 
Crucified,  you  '11  be  the  victim  of  a 
Howling  mob.    Tell  why  you  have  postponed  the 
Burning  of  the  Maid? 

BISHOP:  To  burn  her  now 

May  mean  destruction  of  our  worthy  cause. 

WINCHESTER:  Why  so,  Cauchon,  in  God  or  devil's  name? 

BISHOP:  'Tis  for  the  lack  of  unanimity. 

Thousands  will  believe  the  Maid's  confession  forced 

And  hold  her  innocent.    They'll  not  accept 

Our  version  of  her  guilt.    Therefore  to  them 

Her  martyr  spirit  will  in  fancy  spring 

From  out  its  ashes  to  avenge  her  death 

And  bloody  revolution  will  then  take  place. 

You  see,  she's  sworn,  with  other  things,  that  she'll 

Abandon  male  attire  on  penalty 

Of  death.    To  lapse  in  this  will  mean  her  death 

By  legal  right.     Her  lapse  can  easily  be 

Achieved.     Leave  it  to  me. 


[6s] 


Your  robe,  my  Jeanne, 
I've  brought  your  robe  myself,  because 
I  shrink  to  see  this  vulgar  shame  upon 


Your  sex,  my  child.    And  then  you've  sworn  you  will 

Abandon  male  attire  on  penalty 

Of  death.     See  to  it  that  you  do  not  lapse. 

MAID:  My  robe!    The  Bishop!  You  astonish  me. 

What  could  it  mean?    A  servant's  act  -performed 
By  great  Cauchon.    Was  it  a  change  of  heart? 

WINCHESTER:   But  Bishop,  what  if  Jeanne  d'Arc  does  not  lapse? 
BISHOP:  O  thousand  fools!    What's  easier  than  that? 

Then  he  arranged  it  with  the  guard  and  lejt. 
O  happy  Bishop!  with  his  purple  face 
Aglow.     The  long  sought  honor  now  within 
His  grasp.    His  cup  oj  joy  Jull  to  the  brim. 


MAID:  'Tis  morning, 

Aye,  and  still  my  iron  cage  and  chains.    O, 

Virgin  Mother!  what  a  night  I've  spent;  but 

Something  to  console — a  female  robe — a 

Robe  brought  to  me  by  Cauchon  himself;  a 

Sign  perchance,  he  will  relent  and  make  his 

Promise  good.    Ah,  yes,  I  see  the  robe,  its 

Gone.    The  male  attire  is  in  its  stead.     I 

Might  have  known.     'Tis  Cauchon 's  final  triumph.     He's 

Won  the  game!     "Poor  Jeanne,  she's  lapsed!"    Alas! 

What  other  could  she  do?    Jehsus  Maria! 

MESSENGER:  Lapsed!    Lapsed! 

Aye,  Jeanne  has  lapsed! 

A h,  blessed  music  in 
The  Bishop's  ears!    He's  quickly  on  the  scene. 

[631 


BISHOP:  I  see  you've 

Lapsed,  my  Jeanne, 

He  said,  his  blotched,  purple 
Face  all  wreathed  in  smiles,  rejoicing  in  his 
Victim's  grief. 

You've  sworn  you  would  abandon 
Male  attire  on  penalty  of  death. 

She  offered  no  excuse;  she  made  no  charge 
Against  the  guard,  nor  yet  apportioned  blame. 
She  simply  said: 
MAID:  You  also  failed  to  keep 

Your  promise  unto  me.     You  did  not  send 
Me  to  the  woman's  prison,  as  you  said 
You'd  do. 

MARGEURIE:  Something  suspicious  here — 

A  wrong  has  been  committed  on  the  Maid, 

Declared  the  angry  Margeurie,  one  of 
Her  judges  in  the  trial. 

BISHOP:  O,  thousand  devils!     Will  you  shut  up. 

Exclaimed  the  Bishop,  in  a  fit  of  rage. 

Ah!  Jeanne,  how  true  thy  words! 
His  final  trump  was  played;  the  game  was  won. 
Believing  that  her  end  is  near,  the  Maid 
Dictates  the  last  sweet  message  to  the  loved 
At  home. 


THE  MAID'S      Dear  mother,  father,  and  my  loved  ones,  all, 
LAST  LETTER:  O  strive  with  God,  his  help,  to  bear  the  news — 

The  last  love  message  from  your  own  poor  Jeann< 

[64] 


The  last  she'll  send  from  out  her  iron  cage. 
Last  night,  the  holy  vision,  it  came  back  to  me. 
'Twas  sweet  Domremy  of  Lorraine  and  I 
Was  there,  a  happy  child  again,  leading 
My  sheep,  my  tender  lambs,  o'er  hillsides  green 
With  grass,  fragrant  and  beautiful  with  flowers — 
Saw  my  sweet  home,  the  loved  ones  as  of  yore — 
Pierre,  Margot,  Mengette,  Gerard,  my  Louis  and 
The  others  as  they  were,  when  cares  were  small 
And  sorrows  had  not  come.     Hands  join'd,  we  danc'd 
Around  the  Fairy  Tree,  sang  our  dear  song, 
Arbre  Fee  la  Bourlemont.     Once  more  the 
Voices  spake  to  me  and  said:     "  Dear  Jeanne  sweet 
Martyrdom  must  be  the  fitting  crown  for 
Such  a  life  as  thine." 
I  saw  the  stake,  the  flame,  the  multitude; 
But  the  angel,  he  was  in  the  flame  to 
Shield  my  soul  and  bear  my  spirit  home. 
'Tis  hard  to  say  good-bye — 
Good-bye  to  my  own  dear  Domremy,  where 
My  heart  abides — my  loved  ones  too;  my  sheep,  my 
Lambs,  my  precious  friends.    O,  God!  'tis  hard, 
But  then,  'tis  sweet  to  go  from  grief  and  pain 
Unto  my  home,  where  you  shall  come  ere  long. 
Father,  forgive  these  poor,  benighted  men, 
Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do. 


'Tis  morning  and 

The  holy  Friar's  voice  is  heard,  speaking 
Softly  unto  Jeanne. 

MAID:  A  message,  Father? 

I  know  you've  brought  a  message  unto  me — 
I  read  that  message  on  your  face. 

[651 


FRIAR: 

MAID: 
FRIAR: 

MAID: 

FRIAR: 
MAID: 
FRIAR: 
MAID: 

FRIAR: 
MAID: 


FRIAR: 
[66] 


Ah!  my  poor  child, 
I  wonder  can  you  bear  the  news  I  bring? 

In  low,  sweet  tones,  she  answered, 

Yes. 

My  child,  I  have  been  sent  here  to 
Prepare  thy  soul  for  death. 

Father  Ladvenue, 
Did  you  say  for  death? 

For  death,  dear  child,  aye,  and  for  life  as  well. 
What  kind  of  death,  good  Father,  shall  it  be? 
I  find  it  not  in  my  sore  heart  to  tell. 

Yes,  holy  Father,  tell  me,  for 
Tis  better  I  shall  know,  I'll  bear  the  pain 
Through  God,  his  grace. 

By  fire,  by  fire,  poor  child, 
Thy  soul  must  pass  to  God. 

Tis  cruel,  Father! 
O!  so  cruel  and  unjust.     In  God  his 
Name,  how  can  they  treat  me  so,  I  whom  they 
Hailed  as  the  deliverer  of  France  ?    Where 
Now  the  shouting  throngs,  their  voices  like  to 
Ocean  waves!    Where  now  the  glaring  lights,  the 
Bugles  sweet,  and  bands,  loud  praise  of  hosts, 
Honors  and  emoluments  of  kings  ? 

Tis  but  the  way  of  this  poor  world,  dear  Jeanne; 
This  empty,  weak  and  vacillating  world. 


There  is  no  confidence  to  be  reposed, 
Save  in  our  Lord  most  High. 


FRIAR:  Ah!    D'Alencon,     'tis  thou. 

Speak  to  the  child  who  is  of  heart  so  sad. 
Speak  low,  I  warn,  remembering  that  thou 
Too  art  a  prisoner  escaped,  and  doomed 
If  heard.     Speak  low. 

D'ALENCON:  Doomed  if  heard ! 

Then  be  it  so.    To  die  with  her,  it  would 
Be  heaven.    To  live  without  her,  hell. 

I  hear  the  voices  yonder — 
Priests  chanting  for  her  soul. 

FRIAR:  Nay,  D'Alencon, 

It  is  the  clerk,  who  reads  the  charges  to 
Her  day  by  day.     'Tis  but  a  portion  of 
The  torture  they  inflict.    When  he  has  done 
You  then  can  have  my  time.     I  will  confess 
Her  at  the  stake. 

D'ALENCON:  The  stake! 

O  Christ  and  Mary,  has  it  come  to  that? 

MAID:  Ah!     D'Alencon,  how  sweet  thy  voice, 

And  thy  dear  face  in  sadness,  doubly  so. 

D'ALENCON:     Aye,  Jeanne,  thy  nearness,  e'en  in  sorrow  makes 
The  bliss  of  heaven  my  own. 

MAID:  O,  tell  me  now,  dear  D'Alencon, 

Why  did  I  not  take  warning,  when  you  said 
The  voices  were  delusions  and  a  snare? 


[67 


D'ALENCON:  No,  no,  my  Jeanne, 

For  that  I  grieve,  how  deeply,  words  can't  tell. 
You  were  so  happy,  so  triumphant  in 
Your  faith,  until  I  blurred  it  with  the  mist 
Of  doubt.     Let  not,  I  pray,  that  skeptic  speech 
Of  tongue,  which  never  was  of  heart,  becloud 
Thy  mind  in  this  sad  hour  in  which  thy  soul 
Must  pass  to  God. 

MAID:  But  see,  my  dear, 

They  come  not  to  me  again. 
Why  do  they  leave  me  in  this  hour  of  trial? 
Where  once  the  angel's  voice  spake  unto  me, 
Now  all  is  silent  and  an  empty  void. 
Where  once  my  spirit  rose  to  heaven  and  God — 
It  falls  to  earth  beneath  its  broken  wings. 

D'ALENCON:     Thy  faith,  sweet  one,  will  not  forsake  thee  in 

The  flame.     Twill  come  again  to  thy  great  soul, 
Which  did  impart  the  same  to  mine.    Therefore 
Believe,  dear  one,  as  thou  hast  taught 
Me  to  believe,  as  now,  through  thee,  I  do 
Believe. 

He  kneeled  beside  her  in  a  silent  prayer — 
A  -prayer  not  spoken^  but  a  prayer  of  power. 

MAID:  O,  D'Alencon,  the  light,  the  light! 

The  morn  of  hope  in  beauty  breaks.     It  is 
More  glorious  now.     'Twas  but  a  little  cloud 
Between  my  spirit  and  the  righteous  sun. 
Thou  hast  dispell'd  it  and  behold,  a  dove. 


[68] 


A  heavenly  radiance  was  upon  her  face; 
A  light  celestial  in  her  upturned  eyes. 


MAID:  Strange,  D'Alencon,  but  no  less  dear, 

That  God  should  send  you  to  revive  her  faith, 
Who  once  did  fear  and  pray  for  thine. 
0 

D'ALENCON:  A  last  sweet  word,  my  Jeanne. 

My  heart  is  burning  in  its  love  for  thee! 
Love  that's  immortal  and  can  never  die. 
E'en  in  our  childhood  days,  I  loved  you  then. 
Beside  the  Fairy  Tree  where,  hand  in  hand, 
The  children  danced  and  sang;  and  in  the  fields 
You  watch'd  your  gentle  flocks  and  lead  your  lambs; 
In  all  those  happy  days  when  Jeanne  she  was 
Their  leader,  life  and  prophetess.   Likewise,  in  later  years, 
When  strong  men  bowed  at  your  command;  when 
Cannon  boomed  and  swords  clashed  and  God's 
Brave  Maid  was  never  in  the  rear;  and  on 
The  moonlit  night  I  stood  at  guard,  beheld 
Thy  face  in  slumber,  dear  and  sweet;  when  in 
Thy  dreaming  thou  didst  speak  my  name,  and  I 
Crept  forth  to  kiss  thy  hand,  a  vision 
Rose  between.    A  voice  spake  in  my  soul  and 
Said:     "Stand  back,  thou  venturesome!    This  place  is 
Holy  ground.    The  angels  keep  their  vigils 
Round  God's  Maid." 

MAID:  Thy  words,  great  soul,  O  how  they  strengthen  me! 

D'ALENCON:  Ah!    Jeanne, 

In  this  strange  hour  so  sweetly  sad,  'tis  love 
Of  soul,  and  in  that  love,  I  fold  thee  now,  O 
Noblest  of  womankind  unto  my  heart 
Of  hearts.    Let  me  behold  the  spirit  light 
In  thy  dear  eyes,  where  dwells  eternal  peace. 

MAID:  O  noble  soul, 

Who  hast  so  known  and  loved  me,  as 
None  other  hast.     'Tis  worth  the  pain  to  know 

[69] 


D'ALENCON; 


The  man  thou  art.    The  spirit  union!  ah!  it 

Is  the  only  and  the  dearest  one     The 

Union  in  earth's  sorrow  formed,  holds  heaven's 

Deepest  joy.    There  can  henceforth  be  neither 

Grief  nor  pain  for  me.    The  King  might  offer 

Me  his  crown;  the  world  its  gold,  I  would  not 

Now  accept  them  for  this  deeper  joy. 

Ah!    D'Alencon,  great  husband  of  my  soul, 

In  heaven  above,  where  all  is  pure  and  good 

And  true,  I'll  be  your  Jeanne,  your  own  sweet  bride. 

My  bride!  My  spirit's  bride! 
Aye,  Jeanne!  That  were  a  heaven  indeed  to  me! 
Oh  holy  Maid,  so  terrible  in  war; 
So  beauteous  encircled  in  the  beams 
Of  peace ! 


MAID:  And  so  they've  sent  you,  brother  Martin,  to 

Bring  Jeanne.    The  bells!    O,  aye,  I  know  well  wh« 
They  are.    The  executioners.    They  told 
Me  that  those  bells  were  ringing  for  the  mass. 
They  did  not  know  how  sweet  the  sound  to  me. 
I  fear  no  more  the  flame.    God's  angel  stands 
Within,  and,  in  its  glow  I  see  the  path 
Which  leads  to  heaven  and  home  and  rest. 


IV 

The  scene  is  changed. 
It  is  Old  Market  by  St.  Saviour  s  Church 
High  noon  on  Wednesday  after  Trinity. 
The  royal,  great  and  holy  men  are  there. 
Both  guests  and  multitude  more  numerous, 
Because  there'll  be  no  disappointment  now. 
Again  the  grizzly,  frowning  stake  appears — 
All  wait  their  victim  with  a  brutal  joy. 
Many  are  happy,  but  one  supremely  so — 
His  blotched,  purple  face  aglow,  like  to 
The  coals  beneath  the  stake.    A  flash  of  fire, 
An  hour  of  pleasure  for  himself  and  guests, 
A  meager  heap  of  ashes  and  0,  then 
The  great  archbishopric  of  old  Rouen! 
It  is  the  hour!  the  hour  of  tragedy 
For  France,  and  England's  immortal  shame. 
The  silence  deepens  and  the  multitude 
Appears  transfixed,  as  if  in  living  death. 
She  comes!  she  comes!  the  holy  Maid,  and  in 
Her  clanking  chains.    No  royal  escort,  king 
Or  honors  now.    No  wild  rejoicing 
Like  at  old  Orleans,  when,  Charles  was  crowned,  and 
France  redeemed. 

She  comes,  she  comes,  in 

Robes  of  purest  white  arrayed.    A  light  divine  is  on 
That  angel  face.    It's  heavenly  beautiful. 

MULTITUDE:     Sister  of  Christ!    Savior  of  France!    Child  of 
The  Highest! 

Broke  forth  in  chorus  like  the 
Sea, from  thousands, falling  on  their  knees  in 


Penitence  and  prayer.    A  feeling  strange  and 
Indescribable  fell  over  all.     Ten 
Thousand  men  shed  tears,  e'en  Cauchon  ceas'd 
To  smile.    Winchester  wept;  his  tears  have  since 
Been  dried  in  hell. 

0  Bishop  of  Beauvais,  thy  victim's 
Going  to  a  shameful  death — thou  unto 
Renown.     Ah,  y  twill  not  be  what  now  it  seems. 
Her  bed  of  death  is  fire;  thine  will  be  down — 
Immortal  honor  her  reward;  but  thine, 
Eternal  infamy.     The  church  she  loved, 
Will  give  her  sainthood,  which  now  gives  her  death. 
The  same  will  brand  thee,  its  arch-hypocrite 
Unto  the  end  of  time. 


KING:  Aye,  Catherine,  'tis  the  very  day 

And  this  the  hour  of  poor  Jeanne's  martyrdom. 
And  I,  the  coward,  whom  she  crowned  and  saved 
Concealed  behind  these  walls  of  stone — conceal'd 
From  human  gaze,  but  not  from  conscience  and 
Remorse.     Go,  Catherine,  go  and  leave  me  to 
My  bitter  fate. 

CATHERINE:  And  dost  thou  thrust  me  out 

Into  a  heartless  world?    I,  whom  thou  didst  make 
The  scapegoat  of  thy  crimes? 

KING:  Ah!    Catherine!  by  thy  own  confession,  thou 

Didst  lie,  lie  cruelly  about  the  Maid. 
Lie,  when  thou  saidst  the  vision  warned  me  not 
To  enter  Rheims  and  in  all  thou  didst  say 
Against  Jeanne  d'Arc.    O,  God!  what  might  I  not 
Have  been,  had  I  not  yielded  to  the  tempter's  voice? 

CATHERINE:      Thou  ill-begotten  wretch  in  garb  of  king! 


Blaming  the  woman  thou  hast  made  thy  tool 
And  seeking  to  avenge  her  for  thy  crimes. 

KING:  The  child  should  be  immune  from  parent  crime 

And  I  am  pierced  with  taunts  of  blameless  shame. 
"Tis  why  my  soul  has  never  risen  to  high 
Resolve.    Ye'd  not  allow  me  to  live  down 
My  shame  and  win  through  noble  deeds 
In  spite  of  it,  a  noble  name — O,  help 
Me  heaven,  for  truly  I  repent! 

CATHERINE:      If  thy  confession's  true,  my  stricken  King, 
One  sentence  only  does  our  crime  deserve — 
The  sentence  of  an  equal  guilt. 

KING:  Then,  Catherine, 

Let  us  haste  to  seek  her  pardon,  whom  we 
Both  have  wronged. 

CATHERINE:  Too  late,  O  Charles, 

She's  burning  now! 

KING:  For  Christ's  sake,  Catherine,  speak  it  not! 

Burning  and  abandoned  by  the  King  and 
Country,  which  she  hath  redeemed. 
I  wonder  why  this  coward  soul  was  ere 
Enshrined  in  flesh,  that  it  so  basely  would 
Forsake  its  truest  friend — yield  up  the  lamb 
Of  God's  own  flock  unto  the  devil's  wolves? 
So  stricken  this  poor  conscience  now,  what  will 
It  be  when  Satan  toasts  it  on  his  splint 
In  hell? 


Brave  Jeanne  ascends  the  scaffold  without  fear — 
Gentle  and  radianty  with  her  upturned 


[73] 


SOLDIER: 


MAID: 


Face,  she  stands  beside  the  grizzly ,  frowning 
Stake;  spotless  and  pure  like  to  an  angel 
From  the  highest  heaven.     The  chains  are  placed, 
A  silent  hush  falls  over  all.    Heaven 
Is  weeping  and  the  earth  is  sad. 


A  dove!     I've  seen  a  dove! 


A  dove! 


The  soldier  calls. 

As  tremblingly  he  turns  away,  smiting 
Upon  his  breast. 

O  cruel  flame, 

Streaming  upward  to  destroy,  with  tongue  and 
Teeth  of  fire  and  pain  of  hell,  this  body, 
Worn  and  weak!    Ah,  no!  for  now  I  see  the 
Light  within  the  light.     It  may  destroy 
My  body,  but  'twill  give  my  soul  release. 
These  people  only  see  the  flame;  they  see 
Not  God  within.    The  music,  ah,  the  sweet 
And  heavenly  music  that  I  hear!    It  must 
Be  voices  from  the  choir  invisible! 
My  angel!    O,  my  blessed  angel  friend! 
O,  thou  dost  not  forsake  me  in  the  flame! 
My  voices!  ah,  I  hear  them  speaking  to 
Their  Jeanne — speaking  sweetly  as  before.    O 
Yes,  my  voices — they  were  true;  they  came  from 
God,  whose  child  I  am !    I  die  for  France,  for 
God,  his  truth.     Father  forgive — forgive! 
Jehsus  Maria.    A-m-e-n. 


[74] 


Here  ends  Joan  of  Arc,  a  dramatic  recital 
written  by  James  Henry  McLaren,  printed 
and  published  by  Paul  Elder  &  Company 
at  their  Tomoye  Press  in  San  Francisco, 
under  the  care  of  Ricardo  J.  Orozco,  their 
printer,  during  the  month  of  June,  in  the  year 
Nineteen  Hundred  and  Seventeen 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


7  P 


VI  *^ 
R^C'D  LD 

MAR  1 5 


._^-U  LI 


LD21-100m-ll,'49(B7146sl6)476 


16799 


368039 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


